FOREIGN LOVERS I guess that a desire to not understand every damn word is part of the attraction. The way that the pale or dark of a continent can shape someone’s beliefs, imparting new definitions for appetites or expectations. Becoming fuel or maybe just locomotion infused by mango, or truffle, marinara, or capsaicin. Jet lagged and tumbling into sunshine or shadow a day ahead (or behind) some imaginary line, where like a gape mouthed time-traveler one must decipher foreign tongues, with an explorer’s curiosity, nosey about how to properly understand Querido, Mon chéri, Jagi, Libeling, Habibati, or Tesoro.
SHE IS PICKING LAVENDER IN THE GARDEN The morning has become just hot enough to say, let’s call it an afternoon She is on one knee genuflecting sort of amidst the flower garden She wore a white sundress that buttons up the front and I am intrigued by every flash of naughtiness (even after all of these years) I think that the sun does her justice as few can boast She shines like metal but that’s not nearly kind enough a description though I am hard-pressed to find a better one, like bronze, or the color of a deer’s eye She comes towards me, hands filled with lavender and laughs, squinting under her ballcap, at my backlit silhouette she asks, “What are you lookin’ so sneaky about?”
George Hammons studied creative writing, with a focus on poetry, at California State University, San Bernardino. He is the author of the chapbook, Hungry To Bed from Arroyo Seco Press and Witness: Selected Poems from Picture Show Press.
All rights © George Hammons
a moon of one's own 