| by E. Doyle-Gillespie Masala Tea and Oranges Night smells rise with crushed cardamom steam and I can see you, again, perched atop my body, your smooth belly rising and falling to the city sounds from the street below. I rest my hands on your Portuguese hips - your mother's only lasting gift to you - and watch as tan skin and ripe, full pomegranate breasts collect the trickles of red neon that slip in from the Half-Moon Cafe'. And when I open my eyes, I find that you have left masala tea and oranges next to your manuscript on the night stand, my favorite books are gone from the shelf, and I am late to my appointed rounds. Below are check box to rate the poetry on this page |
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