I don’t often write poetry; most of my writing involves workshops, lectures, and lesson plans. Once in a while, though, I am moved to write a poem. I wrote this one in 2006, and it wasn’t until I re-read it recently that I realized how closely it suits my current work in sexuality and aging. I offer it to you in hopes of inspiring you to reflect on your own maturing sexual nature.
I don’t remember where we first kissed,
but I remember the way you smelled of Dove soap
and tasted of red wine and apples.
I remember the way I struggled to keep my distance
before giving in and pressing my body into yours
and how it took my breath away to melt into you so easily,
my mouth to yours, my chest to yours, our hips, our hips, our thighs.
I don’t remember when we first kissed,
but I remember it was fall, and the leaves skimmed around our feet
and you lifted me up just a bit before setting me down
and whispering into my hair, “I found you.”
I remember that when you kissed me this morning,
you didn’t take my breath away, and you didn’t taste of red wine,
and you didn’t lift me off my feet.
But you still smelled of Dove soap,
and our bodies pressed into each other with yearning,
and my heart sang.
@2006 Melanie J. Davis. All rights reserved. www.honestexchange.com