Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Will She Be There Tomorrow?

©Will She Be There Tomorrow?

Mona Arizona, November 2014

All Rights Reserved

  

We'd coffee-housed six cups,

talking and laughing and planning,

never knowing four feet of

snow had suddenly descended.

As we parted,

her to her upstairs loft,

me to find a cab home,

she kissed my cheek

as a sister,

as a mother,

as a concerned friend,

and I left. The outside door clicked

closed behind me and

I took in a sight I had never seen

before —an empty city.

There was no sign

a human had ever visited this

outlandish, white place...

no cars,

no people,

certainly no taxis.

The grainy crunch of too-thin shoes

on fresh, icy snow, the warm, labored

breath of this determined pedestrian, and

the soft expletives of wonder

as each turn revealed

something new,

something refreshed,

something redefined,

were the only noises in this silent city.

I had a long walk ahead of me,

a walk across the ancient heart of the city,

a walk I'd certainly never experience again,

at least, not unprepared for snow.

The wonders of the newly naked city

took me away from my direct route home.

Thankfully, it's always warmer when it snows

and my spirited walking made up for my lack

of gloves,

of hat,

of scarf,

as I kept tramping and crepitating

on my northerly route. I had

a good hour to think about

curling under quilts in my warm bed.

I came upon a park only heard of,

never seen; a park with the only

freshly-created-from-iced-snow

nude statue of a woman

in an arresting pose. She rested

on her right hip, her only contact

with the pedestal she had been placed on,

her shapely legs, toes pointed,

her torso cocked upwards,

her left arm held straight out

along her line of sight,

her fingers cupped as if

she might be sighting something or

holding (contemplating) something invisible.

How delicately iced with snow she was

along her length and yet she lay

as if roughly thrown into the garden.

My steps hurried me to her as she

lay posed on her hivernal emptiness,

delicately iced with snow,

looking both serious and coquettish

at the same time, enticing me to touch

her strident, out-thrust legs,

her tempting nates,

her deliciously carved back,

with no one around to officiously say

"No touching!" I approached her,

reaching one bare hand to her

no doubt frigid, icy flesh.

She looked cold lying there in the snow,

impervious to my reaching hand.

Did she look down at it?

Suddenly, I was embarrassed,

as though she had read my mind

so easily; I looked into her face.

Was it my imagination?

Did she take my ungloved hand?

Did she place it on one of her high, pert breasts?

The tits of a young woman.

The icy cold nipple

sculpted in detumesence,

nevertheless, hard against my palm.

It was a breast that was more

than a handful, if an honest man

would admit he had held and weighed one.

She reminded me of Aristide Maillol's

life-size bronzes of nude women.

Did she laugh? Could she read my mind?

Was it her taking my hand lower,

down to the gentle contours

of a young woman's belly,

up onto the proud haunch

of a woman unafraid of work,

along the calf of a woman

with the strength to keep going,

down to the toes, which I now saw

were splayed in orgasmic bliss?

I was again drawn back to her head

with its peaceful yet puzzling expression.

Heaven help me! What was I thinking?

That she was inviting me to take her

here in this icy garden.

Was she opening her legs for me?

Was I to be her lover?

Was that enigmatic hand grasping

an invisible cock she sought

to pull into her wet mouth? Well?

I must have looked like a fish

out of water with my mouth

opening and closing as I looked

for an answer to her aggressive questions

because, suddenly, she was laughing

that rough, raspy laugh of a woman

laid out in rapture to torture men like me.

It was from that sensual glissade

that I pulled my hand away

and imagined every foul word

louts and perverts would say about her

tomorrow when they saw her,

when they reached out a hand,

when they touched her,

when they stroked her nudeness.

Was she a sweet, innocent woman?

A woman who knew no shame

in her naked body the artist

assuredly did not want sullied

with the lewdness of men,

the blaming of jealous women,

the fantasies of lonely men like me?

Was she looking at me again?

I must have goldfished again ...

Was that her sigh of goodbye?