by Dorianne Laux

I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat,
smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I’d go to where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles
and calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I’d open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me – the ship’s
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the foreman clanging
off the hull’s silver ribs. Spark of lead
kissing metal. The clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle,
and the long drive home.

by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

read the rest…

by Chungmi Kim

Awakened from a dream, I curl up
and turn. The roses on the dresser
smile and your words bloom.
The red roses for Valentine’s Day.

Like in a film
thoughts of you unfold
moment by moment.

I vaguely hear
the sound of your spoon scooping cereal
the water stream in the shower
the buzzing noise of your electric razor
like a singing of cicada.

Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom.
Your lips touching my cheek lightly.
And the sound of the door shutting.

In your light
I fall asleep again under the warm quilt
happily like a child.

Upon waking
on the kitchen counter I find a half
grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned.
Such a loving touch is a milestone
For my newly found happiness.

by Rabbi Rami M. Shapiro

May we discover through pain and torment,
the strength to live with grace and humor.
May we discover through doubt and anguish,
the strength to live with dignity and holiness.
May we discover through suffering and fear,
the strength to move toward healing.
May it come to pass that we be restored to health and to vigor.
May Life grant us wellness of body, spirit, and mind.
And if this cannot be so, may we find in this transformation and passage
moments of meaning, opportunities for love
and the deep and gracious calm that comes
when we allow ourselves to move on.

(Bergquist/Detweiler)

You’re my water
You’re my wine
You’re my whiskey
From time to time

You’re the hunger
On my bones
All the nights
I sleep alone

Sweet intoxication
When your words
Wash over me

Whether or not
Your lips move
You speak to me

Like an ocean
Without waves
You’re the movement
That I crave

And in that motion
I long to drown
And be lost not to be found
You’re my water
You’re my wine
You’re my whiskey
From time to time

by Jason Whitmarsh

That last love poem I gave you, I want to apologize for that. It was
crudely put and several of the metaphors leaned too heavily on sea
life. I love you so much more than that. The best part of the poem
was the beginning, and that had nothing to do with you, or me,
or how much either of us loves each other. It was just a line from
another, better poem. Most of the poem sounds defensive, like I’ve
been accused of not loving you, or you of not loving me. Not that
I think I don’t love you, or you me. I don’t. Still, one could read a
poem by someone else and it’d seem more authentic—you’d be more
likely to think that poem was dedicated to you, I mean, than to think
mine was. One could even argue, too, that by studiously avoiding
your name or any identifying traits, I was making this poem fit for
more than one person, like women in general, or a second wife, or
your very attractive sister.

by e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh…And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

the reminder
brown first
faint warning of blood
so many hues of red and eggplant
impossible that only half humanity knows
this mystery exists inside
tangible
alarming

I am capable of miracles

- Jess is a Soulsister, as well as a writer and poet. Her review of The Red Tent is part of this blog series.

by Ricki Thompson

It wasn’t spring.
It was the third Wednesday in Lent
And our principal was pulling
The heavy vinyl curtain between us,
Boys on one side,
Girls on the other,
Our fifth grade split
Like a cross of section of a tulip,
Here is the stamen, here is the pistil,
And behind us on the plaster wall
Was Jesus, bleeding
And with downcast eyes.
A white-capped nurse gave
Each girl a sanitary napkin
And the vocabulary we would need:
Erection, menstruation,
Fertilization, reproduction,
She piled up words like mortared bricks.
The movie was called
Growing Up and Liking It.
It showed an animated egg
Clicking along the fallopian tube,
A product on the conveyor belt
Of early automation. We saw
The outline of a naked boy,
Heard the nurse say,
Of course you know about wet dreams,
The words escaping like
Houdini’s doves. Did she mean
That dream about the swamp
Where snake-like monsters
Swelled with venom? We knew
There were other words, unspeakable,
Engraved in toiled stalls,
And written in our hearts
The words of Scripture,
Know ye not that your body
Is the temple of the Holy Ghost?
Each girl held a sanitary pad,
Wide and long as our Girl Scout
Troop’s raft. As we stood
At the edge of the swift current
Without the strong arms of
Fathers and brothers to guide us,
We would learn to ferry ourselves
From this world to the next.

by Roger Pfingston

Today, dear one, I attempt the impossible:
I’m going to love your bones,
I mean love your bones so they will know
that they’ve been loved, so your flesh
will simmer with jealousy, melt and merge
with your bones, be one with your bones
and know how cold your bones have been
without love. Are you ready? Can we do this?

It may not be easy, it may be that bones
remain without love for their own good,
it may be they can’t withstand
the pressures of love, the infectious heat
of love, it may be that bones can only make it
with the hard mouth of Death. Nevertheless
today I’m going to love your bones,
beginning, of course, with your flesh….