I wouldn’t kneel and tell you lies
my head between your Brazilian thighs,
for every word that passed your knees
I’d speak in tongues of Portuguese.
And there, each whisper round your hips
you’d feel so softly brush your lips,
and in the breath you’d fail to draw
—your body writhing on my floor—
might last so long that when I spoke,
this magic spell I could invoke,
would rouse your voice, then leave you dumb
as time and time again you’d come.
And oh so, slowly then your eyes,
would close as gently as your thighs.
has lived and worked in the United Arab Emirates for a number
of years. He has been most recently published in Counterpunch,
The Recusant, and Snakeskin magazines. He has work forthcoming
in The Raintown Review, The Flea, and Poetry Salzburg. He is the
editor of The
Shit Creek Review.