Replenish

Remind me, would you,
to buy more of the Peach Momotaro,
with its images of waterfalls, lichen-toned
terraces, waves of mountains imprinted
with dots, little white flowers, and mist.
When I drink it, and the steam enters me,
I think of you and the water feels as if
it’s pouring over the mountains.

—L.L. Barkat

This love poem appears in The Novelist. For more on The Novelist, visit Tweetspeak Poetry.

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photo by L.L. Barkat

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16

I lose myself in the space at the base
Of your neck, the wood hollow, a place
Where rainwater collects and birds sing,
The smoothest pool for my longing.

I want to lay my tongue in the groove
Of flesh, below the bone cupola.
I want to stay there and not to move,
To taste your skin of magnolia.

I lose myself in the space at the base
Of your neck, all sense of self erased.

— Dave Malone

For more love poems, see 23 Sonnets. This poem was published in Every Day Poems.

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On Anatomy and Physiology

I still remember just how you look
naked, the pale curve of your back,
the quiet inlet where it bends
to meet the taper of your waist,
shower water wending where it will
along the architecture of your form.

There may have been studies of a form
such as yours, that begged charges look
and chart the firm geography they will
find around each smooth surface and back—
from the ankle to knee and knee to waist—
while changing, adapting as the figure bends,

saying, Note where the wrist starts, thumb ends,
and how the hip tendons each transform.
And every student might attend to your waist
but neglect the collective, assembled look
produced by the bones in your neck and back,
how they form a straight line of poise and will.

Maybe what I saw when I saw you naked will
amount to what makes or breaks or bends
me. I caught your eye, and you glanced back.
You didn’t flinch or show the slightest form
of embarrassment. I remember the look—
a subtle nod and smile—you might waste

as if it were a familiar gaze, might waste
in calm, in nonchalance, in pure goodwill.
Or maybe this gaze is the way you look
into me, past the way my own body bends
to cover my soul, to hide and conform,
to be sure and have my own back—

to hold close and hold tight and hold back
like anxiety for being seen from the waist
down, naked, vulnerable, without form.
Maybe it won’t matter, and maybe it will;
but, having caught you so bared unbends
me, makes me measure, take another look

at my maudlin self—a cruel look to see my back
still bends wrong, my legs, trunk, hands—a waste
of time to contest if ever I will match your form.

—David K. Wheeler, author of Contingency Plans: Poems

This poem is a reprint from Every Day Poems.

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I still remember just how you look David Wheeler photo by LL Barkat

photo by L.L. Barkat

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Good Neighbors

He wondered how she knew about the Cheetos;
he thought he’d washed the orange dust off clean.
Did she note down each case of beef burritos
the dry-ice truck delivered, sight unseen?
And what about the Snickers bags? Did she
use high-powered binoculars to scan?
Did she note down each luscious wheel of Brie,
each sugared soda in its cheerful can?
What was her interest here? What did she make
of diet gone awry? Or his dismay,
as he insanely wolfed each dwindling cake?
What were her thoughts, one whole backyard away?
He thought he’d call her up, ask her to dine.
He’d better buy another box of wine.

—James Cummins, author of Then & Now

This poem is a reprint from Every Day Poems.

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another box of wine James Cummins photo by Kelly Sauer

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Gathered

The day rose with shivered light, bees braiding a path
before his eye had even opened.

Rose the woman, resonant as a struck cello.

The beekeeper entered his kitchen among the crumbs
from dinner, all taste a light on the tongue.

Blind, but it was only light, bees blurring past, softening
into butter.

He stepped outside the door, entered the patterns among
fireweed, sourwood, goldenrod.

Rose on the balls of his feet, raised his face toward heat
and hum, placed a hand on the hive wall. Found himself

spilled back into the embrace of the woman. Entered
the sound everywhere, gathered like glass, boozy with gold.

—Anne M. Doe Overstreet, author of Delicate Machinery Suspended: Poems

Anne M. Doe Overstreet is also a poetry workshop teacher at Tweetspeak Poetry.

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Tea, No Sympathy

Bigelow brews up basic black;
Lipton warms with its touch

of tart Tuscan lemon. But I see
these aren’t your cups of tea.

With them, you get no yin, no
yang, no sweet and bitter blend

of Golden Flower, no accents
of lanky Jasmine Fairy Maidens

quick to unfold their charms
in the tallest sipping glasses. You

tend to trend to gourmet tastes,
need all the tea in China to brew

old Harney’s Golden Monkey,
uncovering leaves’ clearest notes

of honey to sweeten and loosen
your Rumi’s tongue. “Take tea

with me” comes in a silken sachet
I need not strain to decipher. Oh,

to get tippy in Assam’s best garden,
to unwrap your golden Dikom buds

as I unwind my pearls and purple sari.

—Maureen Doallas, author of Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems

This poem is a reprint from Every Day Poems and was a response to a tea poetry prompt at Tweetspeak Poetry: Tea for Two, Autumn.

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Remember?

Remember the shaft of sunlight,
that brought us to this magical world in one, blinding flash?

Remember the flowing river of silver liquid moonshine,
the first sight we ever saw here?

Remember the ice cave,
that reflected our faces in its walls?

I remember you,
do you remember me at all?

—Sonia Joie

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