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Love in a Handful of Dust: panty poem
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panty poem

panty poem

by kirk ramdath

the panties that most
entice my mind
to froth
in the mouth
of memory
black cotton, no frills
unremarkable, except
the girl who wore them
wore them every time
one day, i had to ask
do you always wear the same panties?
not the same ones
, she said
three for ten dollars
you can’t put a price
on that kind of beauty
but let’s not quibble over sunshine
every panty i see
fulfills my greatest fantasy
my favourite panties
are the ones you are wearing
right now —
i admit there are times
i treat panties like wrapping paper
— the fun part is tearing them off
not that panties are not worth
more words
it’s just that, my mouth goes silent
when it senses a purpose
higher than speaking
i fall to my knees
can muster only
if you will let me
do not let me yet
deny me twice
tell me i am not worthy
tell me to lick your feet
or your asshole
i will do it
if it pleases you
when i ask you the third time
my voice loaded with the promise of pleasure
like a threat
like i will die if i don’t taste you
only then
only when
you cannot bear it yourself to wait
tell me
put your hands on my head
pull me to you
so i may worship you
with an ancient prayer
to the temple of your body
your sacred, secret place
of coarse hair
and soft skin
your scent and your wetness —
ambrosia of venus
but you taste better
with each kiss
the deep, wet mix
your arousal and my spit
we become one heat
one body
one mind
gone to oblivion

what was i talking about?
oh yes, panties
if i was the man
you came home to
i’d stop you for a half an hour
before you take a shower
i don’t like panties fresh and clean
off the line or from the machine
panties are like poems
the best ones are a little dirty
walked in, worked in
woman warm
woman wonderful
there’s a story in your panties
only one person knows
lucky story, to be yours
lucky panties
but i do not want the power
of panty-divination —
to penetrate the mystery

of your panty’s history
maybe god can smell your panties
and know your favourite number
but i want to know
your favourite colour
i enjoy my human nose
and the delicacy
of your body tapestry
woven and wet
into fabric and sweat
i don’t want to know your secrets
i want to know your mystery
warm from the heat of your body
alive with the secret language of your story
Wax Poetry and Art
Weekly Poems
- 20 -
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