©Lovers in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved
Cool breezes sneak in through
an open window of our
hotel room in Taos. Somewhere
between your car and the
bedspread, we leave a trail of
discarded clothes and begin nipping
bites on each other's bare skin,
playing at the start —serious
love bites by the time you
draw me onto the king-sized sheets.
Whispering secrets into each other's skin,
telling each other how long it has been,
calling each other pet names,
promising shared fantasies will be fulfilled,
we're voluble lovers starved for
everything the other willingly gives.
You tempt me like a boxer
teased in the ring by the bell —
just one more round...please.
I beg. Our nakedness makes our
sighs and moans sound like music...
we dance, my hands tied
above my head, your fingers
knotted around my hair at the
height of the dance, at the
crescendo of the music, and
you demand me to answer;
Who's your bone daddy, my sex slave?
Muted cries from the ghosts of
past passion join our chorus and
fill the rented room with
the Song of Lovers' Lust
joined by the whisper from the
breezes that sneak in through the
open window of our room
in this artist colony.
You say you like the way
I look, curly hair plastered
to my face, long legs naked
and entwined with yours,
graceful arms with feminine
hands and mobile fingers that
play with the hair on your chest.
Suddenly, we're apart. You say
stay there —don't move. I say
I have to go to the bathroom.
I don't own slippers; I pull
my cowgirl boots on and walk
naked in them to the door.
The breeze from the open window
of our room-for-one-night
in the tributary valley off the Rio Grande
furls my nipples. You chuckle.
I recount each moment of those
earlier hours and the reckless
part of me, that dangerous
voice inside of me, suddenly begs for you.
You knew? You press me against the
door before I can leave that confining
space and you kiss me the way
I was dying to be kissed again,
stretching out the moments
before inevitability sets in
with reality close on its heels.
Any right to refusal was
surrendered years ago when
we gorged ourselves on
desire and protected our emotions
from years of our teeth being cut
on neglect. You whisper my name;
suddenly my sea legs give way
to the weight of love. The way
you kiss my neck, my waist,
my hip bones, my inner thighs...
it is war and it's only
going to end with my
petites morts —thus with a
kiss I die here where
the breeze from the window
blows the curtains and I hear
them dance in our room
where we sever ties with daydreams,
in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Your mouth makes my body dance...
makes me scream...makes you
cover my mouth with your own.
I scream into it and feel
your lips curve up.
In the middle of this heat wave,
you pull me back to bed. I search
for words that will describe how
your shoulders curve when
you pull me to you, against
the solidity of your strong chest,
but I'm lost in the security of your arms.