It’s a lovely day here in the Bay Area, and it’s definitely putting me in the mood for a little fresh air. The outdoors provide so much to soothe the ears: bird song, rustling leaves, the sound of a babbling brook, the muffled duet of grunts and moans coming from the tent over there in the clearing….
But I digress. What I wanted to tell you is that I’ve really had so much fun exploring the sounds of sex here on my blog—with both my virgin ear and my fallen one—and want to thank everyone for sharing their auditeur-y excerpts that capture so well the yearning pleasure of the listener. Still, all along I’ve been also wondering about those crucial partners-in-passion on the other side of the wall. We are well aware of their presence, but how does ours affect them? Indeed, we’ve not yet heard the story from the point of view of the musicians themselves.
On this sunny May morning, I have the great pleasure to present a poem by Erobintica, who’s already brought her lovely lyric voice to this blog in "Window Seat." “As Campers Speak With Hushed Voices” is a virgin piece but will soon appear in a chapbook. I’m very honored to present it here for the first time!
So take a seat under the canopy to the right, cock your ear toward that blue tent on the left, and listen closely to Erobintica:
As Campers Speak With Hushed Voices - a poem for my husband
Feet and flashlights pass
inches away from our tent walls
as I taste the salt trace of exertion
on the warm skin of your chest,
brush tongue against nipple,
kiss pulsing neck.
The year’s first wave of heat
has cooled with sunset.
Slight breezes dried the humid dampness
from our skin. Now we create more.
Whispering, we move quietly.
The only sounds –
rustle of sleeping bag,
creak of air mattress
under shifting bodies.
Listening to each other’s breath,
touches get bolder, more
insistent, until we give in
to the pull and join.
At home we take
our time. Here,
we are urgent.
Soon we clasp,
by muscles relaxing,
the uncoupling, sliding into sleep.