Come Here

by Robert Beveridge

“There is a goddess of the pass and valley, a wet one…”—Arthur Vogelsang, “Jerry’s Song, Blake’s Feet”

I

It’s the little things sometimes. It’s the way
your voice deepens across phone lines, the catch
in your breath. I want you to come over,
as usual, as always. Every night is bad, of course,
but nights ripped by thunder, velvet air soaked
with rain, are by far the worst. You know, then,
to expect it when I say, “come here.” And then
you hang the phone up and come, wend your way
across drenched highways, past the rainsoaked
grass of Edgewater Park, to my door. I catch
you in my arms and kiss you deep, coarse.

II

Lips separate only to lift your shirt over
your head, together again as fingers fumble over
bra hooks. Free at last. The straps tumble, then
the bra tumbles, as it always does, finds its course
to the book-littered floor. Your hands on my cheeks weigh
the mass of my desire, the heat of flush, and catch
my tongue between your teeth, lust and coffee soaked
in your breath. Your sweet bronze bareness stokes
the mindless fire, rakes the coals, turns them over
to explore fresh red beneath. I kiss you, catch
your breath in my mouth, jump to bed. “C’mere, then.”

III

It’s the little things sometimes. The way
you sway, slip tights off, plot your course
to the mattress, soft against my hardness, coarse
sheets against your body, dry against your soaked-
slick thighs, so open to my lips. The way
of contrast, modes of opposites, slide over
and into one another and come together, then,
cry out against the background sound of thunder, catch
harmonies against the air, catch
sweet tones against the bedsheets. It courses
through you, needed as blood, and then:

IV

“Come here,” I say, on the balcony, soaked
between kisses. “Come here for good.” We’ve been over
it before, again, and now. The words weigh
heavy, wash away in rain, slip, roll, catch
on your nipple. Lean over, kiss me. “Of course.”
We hold each other, soaked and slick, beholden.

© 2016 Robert Beveridge

 

Follow Robert

Robert Beveridge writes poetry (recent appearances: The Starving Artist, Third Wednesday, Guide to Kulchur) and makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) just outside Cleveland, Ohio.

 

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