Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

Andrea L. Boyd

Heart and Soul, Mind and Body:
      Attempts at the Language of Love


my heart,
warmly relaxed
by the dancing fire,
a quilt, kindly heavy on my legs,
smooth cotton cocoon,
pieced together from us.

Oh, how we fit!

Like treasured china,
translucent in age:
The cup, the saucer,
a memorable chip matching
one to the other.

You are good coffee,
whole peaches, eaten from the tree,
soup, heady and thick,
the scent beckoning
easy, familiar taste.

I am tenderly touched, thoughtfully cared for,
a gentle smile,
a soft embrace,
lovingly rested, comfortable,
with doting, ancient affection, filled
with blissful knowledge,
contented in this slumber-state.


I am within you
As you are in me,

And I am wonderful in the sensation,
Reckless in divine knowledge,
Divine in translucent joy.

The epiphany has come,
And I swear I shall go sane with it:
I am, for you inhabit and animate
My soul.


I dreamt of you today
While the sun shone
And they spoke, but it was a buzzing.
The language of listening
(Yes. Mm-hm. Go on.)
Was automatic from my lips
touch supple but determined silk,
hot on the delicate skin there,
slipping over the smoothness,
ardent against my tongue.

My mind
Played at betraying me,
Encouraged my senses to skip and strain
In their listening shackles.
I scribbled.
My head nodded.
I leaned forward to look them in the Eyes
roam over me, full of desire.
I plead for contact, feather soft and pricking,
sparking there
and there,
stirring deep, my center.

My face flushed.
I shifted where I sat,
Pleasantly uncomfortable.
Surely, they could see,
Could tell my language was not of listening?
Feigning cold, I pulled my jacket
Close across my breasts
press hard into your hands,
begging more caresses
and a kiss, slow and wet,
to cool my burning skin along its trail,
and heat, yet more, my desire.

My name called through the reverie
(Hm? What? Oh, yes. Of course.)
And, too late, I found I had agreed
To be here, bothered in frustration
Instead of in a reckless bed.
The dream denied for dreaming it
In such a place and Time
stops, as does my breath and beating heart,
aching in my chest as I ache elsewhere.
I am bursting with the want of air and blood
and you.


I am desperately pliant, painfully supple,
a burning quiver,
an eager press,
relentlessly yielding, fervent,
with vexing, woolen urgency, filled
with shaking need,
hurried in unshackled want.

You are a perfect port,
strong bread, salt-buttered and honeyed,
dancing roughly in my mouth,
imploring another taste.

Not a gentle soup, nor sated peach,
nor a contented good-coffee affection, here.
Flesh plays electric tendrils on
I-shall-go-insane-with-it flesh.
Not a quilt that is heavy, now, but blissful, yes.
Not delicate, this -- no china pieces -- but,

Oh, how we fit!

Like tailored leather on searching hands,
forbidden smooth and inviting,
linking you to me, warming
my body.
Warming to friction. Moving
along unrepentant skin.
Moving again.
And again.
And requited, moving, encompassed
in an all-too-ready tremor,
a shining, faultless shiver,
a searing ache, relieved,

©2002 by Andrea L. Boyd

Andrea L. Boyd is a writer and poet, mother and wife, lover and friend, physician assistant and fly-fisherman. She lives in northern Ohio, where the steelhead run the icy waters of Rocky River each spring and fall.

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