Hot pants
| filed under: Poem, Chris Abraham, Pomes, Poetry, Writing, Creative Writing, Poet, Poems
Her hot pants dance and dazzle
Feet flutter under pale spinning calves.
Her Skin is spread taut under the
Cloth of her orange tunic,
It presses against nippled breasts.
The hair crashes and splashes against
Her shoulders -- their chocolate waves spread
On awkward shoulders.
She jounces and pops hair into a
Feathery fan -- then into a
Knot upon the fragile scalp.
Twisting, hopping and grinding hips
Pop hard in the new unripe
Peach delicacy -- the cleft cut crisply
Between flared pelvis.
Her breasts hop, not bounce --
They are the prologue to her body and
I am dazzled. They
Have a loft like steam.
Like drops of semen on sheets
As good as, just as unjust
The flair, the curve, the line is
Preposterous.
Formed like a girl
Built like a woman
Upon the great frame
Female -- feast your eyes.
What is herstory?
I want that budding breast in
My mouth. I need that Thigh
flesh bunched between my fingers
To squeeze. To smell, to lick, to bite.
I need to feel the bloom of petals under
My hand like sunstars -- that sticky
Hot mucous that burns fingers.