by Lauren Bledsoe
Out on the veranda of the little taberna,
the streets sweat a sweet heat,
moonless men tongue their lovers’ ears,
urge them to leave the burnt orange sidewalks,
to swelter elsewhere. For a drop of a moment
you wish one of them would linger
into your mouth the taste of añejo,
ease your desire across the steep stones of the patio,
lead you down beneath, where no one would see
you surrender to texture, abandoned to tamarind,
the smoothest liquid moving you beyond your own skin,
scent of caramel, clove, maple, mandarin.
Lauren Bledsoe has lived in both California and Utah. She makes poems and pictures.
