The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Anne Becker


It was hunger that brought us together,
first word we spoke to each other was lunch.
It was summer, a foreign country, we
stood at the threshold of adulthood, our
flesh moist, eager, our ignorant hearts danced
in our womanlike breasts. Out of the dirt,
from the floor of the castle keep, we rose
to eat what we gathered from the small shops
of the cathedral town. Crisp-crusted bread,
sharp-smooth cheese, globular tomatoes--red
cheeks, unblemished skin--tender petals
of pink meat. Everything we did we did
to music, talk music, the body's own
sostenuto when it loves color, buoyancy,
salt. We floated in a fever of laughter,
slept together nestled like dogs--all night--
and let the rain pour over us.

Copyright 2006-7 by Cook Communication