A Poem for Kamala’s Kiss

Beautiful brown man,
I thought I could laugh at you,
mock your poverty
as if it equaled no mind,
no heart,
deny you even the kiss
you ask of me in payment
for a simple poem,

but you opened the vessel of your soul
like the cool breeze just before the rain,
and I must have you, drink you in—
my mouth long at the well of your words.

If I were rich, Siddhartha,
I would cast all my gold
into your watery depths
for the honor
of bringing up the bucket
and beholding the sound
of sweet light
again and again.

How I can kiss, Siddhartha,
for the promise
of another poem
tomorrow.

Kamala Meditates on Finding Desire

In the shadow of the wide sky,
in the sun on the droplets of dew,
in the shadow of a northern forest,
in the shadow of an oak tree,
you come to me Siddartha
offering me your mouth,
like a fresh fig
moist, and sticky sweet
bursting open and fragrant.

Your words are gifts greater
than other young men who come to me
in beautiful robes
with purses full of many coins.
They must buy my love,
beg me to show them
the art I weave with my body, this fine gauzy cloth
wrapped around them, whispered in their ears
and bathed onto their oiled skin and hair,
scented songs of birds nesting on their warm flesh
like first morning light.

But you come boldly
out of the forest, Siddhartha,
to the entrances of my gardens
and offer me words
in nothing but a tattered loin cloth.
You ask me to teach you
about my abundant love
and I am enchanted
at the empty bowl
you have filled to overflowing
with the mango, perfumed droplets
of all my desire.
These simple words
stir me to the core of everything I am.

What did I know of love before you, Siddhartha?
What will I ever know again without the brush of your hand
at my cheek or your hungry lips at my sweet brown breast?

Even my breath
cannot fill my lungs
like the thought of you.