3 Poems by
Joseph M. Faria
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You
I know you, that familiar grin,
and those hands like big, bright lights
inviting me in.
I know you, that queer laugh quaking,
and those quaint fingers, quenching my thirst
for quivering thighs,
and those mutinous eyes, and the musical touch
of your skin,
how could I ever forget you?
my wife, my mystery guest of motherhood,
away so long, the rooms quake in your absence.
I remember you leaving;
a brisk wind's voice
yearning in the trees,
remember me
too.
love poem
I open the door
the house seems to yawn
a perilous perfume
and from a lamp-light
I see the curves of her thighs
dressed in shadows
her lips move
a beguiling breath of promises
I remain in the dark
a tangle of hesitation
should I touch her or leave
my hands seem to shrivel on my jeans
my legs fail to carry me
then she looks up
and from the corners of her mouth
I see crescent moons
I place my hands on her shoulders
I hear her heart
beating like the sound of bamboo
in the wind
against the sky
then she whispers her lips along my fingers
and in the dark
I knew
love is more than bright words whispered
more than daydream smiles and bold passions
love is this moment
listening
slowburning
It was in the sounds he made.
Little coughing sounds,
Then a yawn, a groan.
Just sounds,
like the ones you make
when you're alone
for too long.
The man put on his white house coat.
The one his wife gave him for Christmas.
The Christmas before she left.
It was a gradual thing.
Not sudden,
like birds flushed from the big grass in the fields,
but a slow sinking into words left unsaid;
the amber edge of smiles,
the pit that widens
with every turn of phrase,
some sunny
and others better left unspoken.
He filled a pot with water
and placed it on the stove.
Soon the aroma of bitter, black coffee
filled the room.
No, not espresso,
but a strong, dark,
unnerving brew.
Sometimes it left him restless.
But most often now,
gave him the edge he needed
to get through the day.
There . . .
There's that cough again.
Cigarettes? Yes. Maybe.
But he smoked less than a pack a day.
It was in the faces he made,
the slight movement of lips,
Then a grin: a forgotten kiss.
Just faces,
like the ones you make,
when you're alone
far,
too often now.
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