Salome
I do not understand my urge to kiss you
as your head approaches upon the disc of silver
polished smooth, radiant moon
I unveil my budded mouth to kiss
your purple-swelled lips, tumescent blooms
and see the birth of stars
what you last saw, love, as the blade severed
the bone-cord that tethered you here
to the earth like a mule
my love for you is naked in my father's hall
my vermilion skirts swirl about my thighs
only caress they have known
at last mother's laugh breaks our moment
she is always laughing her crimson laugh
part beast, part woman
more dangerous for this
forever painting our walls so red
no amount of water can clean us
the servant takes you away
I see your head recede
down a darkened corridor
--Lucy Simpson
The Creature From The Black Lagoon
He was slimy
a bit like an oyster
green as an avocado
and Oh my!
hard as balsam
We fell to loving
in the darkening water
among the reeds' whistle
he and I
though I wasn't quite sure
he was a he
nor I an I
The frogs serenade us
sleep...sleep
in the mangrove arms
as the moon rises
pale eye
pregnant belly
--Lucy Simpson
Sonnet to An Imaginary Lover
No Valentine--this day I’ll stay away
from chocolate treats and silky soft sunsets.
From Hallmark cards, and vibrant red bouquets;
no promise, duty, payback or regrets.
Though faceless, sweeter attributes are found
in gentle lover whom my mind begets.
Below the rim of consciousness he’s bound,
‘til called forth in desire (or in sonnets).
In hazy dreamscape ecstasy is found.
It sunders mind from worries of the day.
Reality’s escape; I come unwound,
delighted with my shady lover’s play.
He comes when called, and disappears, discreet,
‘til my desire dictates when we’ll next meet.
My Muse
Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and my ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely,
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me
and I chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me;
I turn heartbreak into verses.
My heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!
Slight of Hand
there is something to be said
for kisses
that were never anything
but kisses
the slight of hand
of a simple touch
as we pass through each others’ lives
without leaving any marks
there’s something to be said
for the wonder and mystery
of the what-could-have-been
while we hold tight to the moment
as if it is a lifeboat on the rough sea of love
there is something to be said
for glances
between pairs of eyes on sidewalks
smiles over grocery lines
and the good morning exchange of strangers
on crowded subways
there’s something to be said
for kisses
that were never anything but kisses
in simple things
like paper cuts on the fingertips of time
that are too superficial
to leave any scars behind
About the poets in this issue
Lucy Simpson's poems have appeared in WordWrights, PoetryBone and The Comstock Review, among other venues. Her work is forthcoming in the Pulchritudinous Review and Harlots' Sauce. She lives in Seattle with her husband and two small children. She likes to lead poetry workshops in the Seattle public schools. To see more of her work, please visit: www.catscratch.org.
Anne Rettenberg is Editor of Eat a Peach Poetry Journal. She is a psychotherapist in New York City.
Jessica Humiston is a poet in Syracuse, New York.