MAPPING DESIRE
I put this dress on for you,
zipped it tight around my hips
and snug against my waist,
sure to make the space
between my ribs and breasts
look small.
I know—the colors aren’t bright,
they wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye
but see how interesting the pattern?
Mottled black, brown, green
and yellow like a bruised pear.
Expressing one way on the body
and another on the sheer ruffled sleeves.
The wind catches the ruffles
and sends them dancing across
my shoulders. Your new view
from your new balcony ensures it.
Your new balcony sends us up
so high there truly is no one around.
And what do we do with such a gift?
You say your life this time around
is purely for pleasure so we make love
twice and cook every meal half-clothed.
Take a bite. Dress sunk to the bottom
of the hamper now. Brioche bread
instead of multigrain, throw my diet out
the 30th floor window and watch it drown.
Flour, eggs, butter, milk, water, cream.
The sweet slices morph into a sandwich,
avocado toast and French toast.
After breakfast, we fall asleep in the sun.
My new view: eyes open and only sky
to see. Yours: my hair pulled back
and my bare shoulder revealed
holding a set of bruises, mouth-shaped.
We want to eat what we love,
and sometimes it’s obvious: sugary bread,
fried chicken, cheesy noodles, milk chocolate.
And sometimes the urge to squeeze and sink
our teeth doesn’t follow a linear target:
fuzzy pet, plump baby, lover’s shoulder.
Science calls it cute aggression,
freaks call it odaxelagnia,
Kama Sutra calls it love making,
we call it Sunday morning together.
We want to eat what we love
and this is how I know you love me:
my skin mottled black, brown, green
and yellow like a bruised pear.
Scientists propose this dash of aggression
is meant to offset the onslaught of positivity
triggered in the primal brain.
We want to eat what we love
and freaks call it vampire play,
or sadism, or masochism,
or sadomasochism depending
on who likes to bite and who
likes to be bitten.
We want to eat what we love
and The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
names eight kinds of love bites:
the hidden bite, the swollen bite,
the point, the line of points,
the coral and the jewel,
the line of jewels, the broken cloud,
and the biting of the boar.
It instructs men on how to bite
or not bite women from certain
parts of the land, as if desire
could be mapped.
We want to eat what we love
but you don’t need to bite to eat.
Biting is of its own ceremony,
gowned in lime, indigo and juniper green.
Eight ways to embrace and mark
your lover. No nourishment, just documentation.
Infinite ways to say Someone was here.
—from Rattle #72, Summer 2021
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Samantha Leon: “As a writer who crosses genres, formats, and industries, poetry is my North Star. It’s where I go to play, dream, figure-out, mourn, and most importantly, allow myself to be seduced by the details of life.” (web)
