As chamomile brews, daylight
curtsies behind curvy clouds.
Heartley's Moon Over My Tammi
streams out of a flute. My feet
tow the dust of the day�s course
towards you, sitting on the barstool,
until my legs bungalow in yours.

None of our fruit hangs in the tree.
They have crops of their own.
The house adapts to our leisure.

Your hard-skin hands edge slowly
up my duck-print housedress;
devoted fingers slide across
the elastic horizon of cotton
panties, just as Now and Zen
begins. Air rubs the lip of
the teapot. It belts a hot song.



�2007 by Yolanda Calderon-Horn