summer will be gone
when i return
let what we keep or throw away
pass from my hand to yours

lust is a hard red plum
which will ripen next season
i’ve bitten enough to slake the thirst of my journey
and desire the juiciness to come

i trust my lust
if dreams are wishes
i dream of you
and promises of rough pleasures

i will remember your hands on my hips
your hands
a flash of gold
a ring

there is an orchard with fruits for the picking
and you have such strong hands.

Michèle Voltaire Marcelin

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