For Vertumnus

I am Pomona
reaching my fingers out to play
with the yolk of your genitals.
Two lichees ripe for my finger
To transgress an unguarded fertility.

Your desire cries logarithmic.
The pith of your organs powered by
calligraphy and canvas.
With my pen, I plant seeds,
wanting to create for you
Newton's laws
ripe for the body politic.

You are a young boy
willing to let me transform his skin
into silly fruits and equations,
like infinities, imaginaries and 'ometries,
giddy like a pupil
catching sight of his teacher's nipple
harden under the sweep of her blouse.

I have always found algebra seductive,
summation, SIGH, oh-MAY-guh,
plus signs and acute angles
I hold them all in my mouth
like olive pits, turning them belly up
between my lips.

I am Pomona.
My lover is a shape shifter.
He knows how to move
with imagination.

untitled poem

I watched it happen to you once,
when we were dancing.
The light fell down your shoulder,
taking with it all of my resolve, and leaving only
the shadow of your smile.

I know what you look like in the smoke of heated clubs.
The way the arc of your pelvis pulls away from
the palm of my hand.
The pull of your form in retrograde, in revolution.
Spinning the weave,
the fabric of our attraction to each other.

In the atmosphere of your room,
weighted by the seriousness of your curled breasts,
cooled by your sensible shoulders,
I clutch the sheets of a closet drama,
about a girl who gets lost in constellation.

I imagine your pink scar,
playing guard duty around the margin
of your breast.
It flushes hard red when my hand nears.
Out of innocence, gallantry,
I have always wanted to kiss you.
To wrap my lips around it,
like a zipper, or a clit;
to hold it like I knew I could undo you.