equator bound

North to south is her direction, always
towards the equator, away from tepid lovers
and half-felt heartaches. She flies, her tail
feathers to past mistakes; takes a sharp left
turn at the coast.

She stops to smell sad flowers that
mistake themselves for weeds, an
affinity she learned these years gone by.
Plucks one that smells of sunlight
and bathes her hair in it,
the light dancing meringues, and
with the golden blue of eyes,
turn a dangerous green.

Now of nature – she and summer sweat –
fly to the south where dreams begin,
equatorial passions beckon, and
the smell of overripe fruit drips
between her perfect breasts.
A child, still at the border,
but woman in full bloom when she arrives.
Tosses straw hats o’er breaking watered cliffs.
Her hair has stolen the colors of the setting sun
and she is humid in her woman places
like the land she now possesses.

Muse shall be her lover
and song shall be her child.
Strong, sinewed thighs claim the beach,
tender toes spread and sex the sand
welcome its wet embrace. Her skin kissed
by the remnants of equatorial suns,
she is ocean and fury and wind
that ripples finger through her hair
and stars that fight for her eyes’ attention.

But to the south she keeps her eyes,
from the north and winter lovers.
She sits, softly, at peace
in her conquered Latin quarter,
unsheathes her favorite sword
and with her mighty pen,
writes her happy endings
by the equatorial ocean
where lovers reach no more.

3 thoughts on “equator bound

  1. ontyrepassages says:

    I do love this, partly because I’m also heading (further) south to where my “passions beckon” and my muse awaits. And, yes, I’ll write my happy ending. From beginning to end this speaks to my future. Of course, I know all this is a coincidence, for we interpret lines through the filter that is our own life while carrying our own baggage, but it speaks to me just the same so, thank you. Looking at it more objectively, I still like it. 🙂

    1. Bill Jones, Jr. says:

      A dear friend likes to remind me that there are no such things as coincidences. Since I wrote this for a writer, but didn’t know who, I will assume it was written for you. May your muse carry your joy to the universe and your words be heard amid the shouts of laughter.

Comments are closed.