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Poetry
Renee Winter



Volumes



"Free Books"
your sidewalk invitation cried--
parking and peering through your
French patio doors, I
tried the crystal knob, finding it
easy to turn and open into the
small anteroom harboring a
large cherrywood table stacked with
volumes begging to be read.
Paperbacked contemporary novels,
proclaiming political intrigue and
erotic adventures with a
leaning toward the wicked and perverse;
small red leather-bound palm books holding
Shakespearean plays, traditional poems,
shortest stories in teeny print;
heavier volumes of calculus, Biblical
history, and studies of the stars, not
Hollywood, but those of the sky.
Still silence spoke and curiosity
leading me, I tapped open your study door,
dark and musky, oaken and
solid. One desk drawer left a-
jar, and before closing it, I eyed
black velvet blindfolds, simple white
cotton cord, jewel-toned silk
scarves, metal ornaments not meant for
necks or lobes or wrists. My
thighs noticed each other
as I knelt. Hearing a sound behind me, I
quickly shut the drawer and saw you
standing there. You, an august author,
older man of stout build and spectacled eyes, a
face not-typically attractive, but open,
hinting of wisdom and mystery, you
asked what I was looking for, and I answered,
Why nothing, really.
I attempted to excuse myself, you stepped near me,
caressing the side of my chin with your
fingers, stabilizing my insecurities with your
look. Seating yourself at your generous chair,
you asked me to speak about myself.
Still in my kneeling position, I shared bits of my
seeking nature, my
virginal attempts at poetry, my
lust for dark corners and
quantum leaps.
Your eyes listened intently,
sage head nodded quietly.
Then you spoke of your own passions,
your eyes drifting up and out to some
unknown focus, saddened and hopeful
all at once.
When you were done, you contemplated
my submissive posture and smiled.
Frightened at first, for I knew of your
dominant nature from the secret drawer,
but your wordless, open hand
assured me of my safety and I
knew somehow you would
not allow your strength to
invade me for your own purposes. You
walked me carefully to the
center of the room and raised me by my
narrow waist, bringing me to rest upon your
rising member. Though clothed,
I could feel the
tip of you
touching the
entrance of me.
We met at that space,
that contact point and looked into eyes
that went beyond words and age and
time and sex and relationships.
You raised and lowered me,
the air our tunnel, the slightest touch a
melting point, and I rested my head on your
chest as you coaxed me to let
all my walls fall,
my open hands found your
pin-nipples and I shuddered my climax,
collapsing my lithe-self on your sound
bosom. Intimate, almost anonymous comfort,
you were gifting me my own release
without asking for one in return.
You set me on my wavering feet,
and led me to the study door,
picked up the books you knew I wanted,
your man-hand on my shoulder,
took me to the French doors and the
afternoon sun. Your
lips on my
cheek for goodbye,
you turned and
walked slowly back to your study,
still stiff from the discomfort
of your desire.



How Men Fuck with Our Minds



They say, I've never felt so
Open with anyone but you.

They say, I adore you, .and please,
Please, let me feel your tits.

They say, don't worry, you are just
Following your heart. You aren't
Doing anything wrong.

They say, you are so beautiful--oh my god,
Look at that nubile thing over there
With whorish thighs just meant to be spread.

They say, if I said anything to offend you, I
Didn't mean it. You know I think the world
Of you.

They say, trust me.

I say, fuck you.



How Women Suck Our Minds Dry



You manage to tease us into bed
just so you can
talk about the men who have
done you wrong.

You tell me not to let
my little head do the thinking,
then you
beg
me to give you what mama really needs.

You say how you
wish to bow and serve and nurture and
bake for us, then you
cry to struggle free from your
bonds of slavery.

You say how men never pay enough
attention to your nipples,
and then you hide them behind your
padded *miracle* bras.

You complain how men
never want to make a
strong enough commitment, and then you
wishy-wash at the tiniest of
decisions, leaving them all up to your
man.

You drip hot wax on my
dick, watching me scream a
long song,
and then you tell me how you
love to be my mistress.

You know you have the
ultimate power over us.
Therefore, dear ladies, do not
fuck with us.



Hook



She took me
away from the rest of the group
into her neighbor's apartment
to fetch one thing or another.
We were alone,
quiet
for the first time.
She touched my curly hair,
freshly cut,
her fingers running through,
touching my scalp.
There was a look that
connected
and I don't know what else it said
but ever since then,
I look at her handmade lace nightgown
hanging on the hook in her bathroom
and I wonder
what it would be like
to taste a woman.



Renee Winter teaches literature and writing at a public middle school. She also develops scripts with her students, then directs and produces the plays they create. She lives with her two angel daughters and her loving husband in California.


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