I am told for him, Summer blue
evenings and cheese cause a sensation.
He likes to eat rolls spread with the charmeuse
feeling of Camembert,
and woo the breeze by tossing back
his gypsy hair and cravat.

I want to find the man
inside the poet, break the shell
with my celadon fingernails
and lick the influence
of Bohemia.

A flock of crows
kerchief the horizon�s head
as if to cover it
with an old woman�s shawl, garment
of a gossip who�d warn me
not to chase the reckless bard.

But enough of signs, I will tempt him
by emulating cheese, skin smooth,
skirts and underskirts churned like cream
in the vineyard light; and my smile

peeled off his glance and savored
on the tongue -- so it lingers.
So it haunts. So it makes him realize
I am better, much better
than the dairy�s prize, round buttocks
aging outwardly -

while I appear young, ripen
from the inside-out.

My mind houses the wisdom
of courtesans dating back
to The Sun King and the glittering
fantasies of Versailles. Sshh!

There�s no need to speak or think,
only follow. I am the scent
of a countryside he has never known,
a dream he will always remember.



�2006 by Wendy Howe