Posted on 12 February 2004

The sun is shining with such warmth that I’ve taken my work out several times to bask. I had a moment of inspiration this morning.

On my fiftieth birthday, Rob gave me the perfect gift – every writer’s dream or so I think. It is something that I never thought I’d own. A Mont Blanc fountain pen.

When I travel, I leave it at home, knowing that I am sometimes absent-minded when I write and may leave it on some bench or restaurant chair. So last year when I went to Northern Ireland and France, I left it behind. Today I rediscovered it.

I have another poem, this one for Rob who overwhelmed me with this gift (and others I admit.) I find us creeping closer and closer this year and I am holding my breathe, not wanting to jinx it. Two notes to specific others before I type the poem.

Kate – my wayward thoughts are returning.

My children – don’t read this poem if you think your parents are beyond sex.


by Gioconda Belli

“I want to taste

your salty, strong flesh.

Start with your arms as splendid

as the branches of a ceiba tree,

then your chest like a cave

in a dream I’ve dreamt,

chest-cave where my head plunges

unearthing the tenderness,

that chest sounding like drums

and life’s never ending flow.

I want to linger there

letting my fingers tangle

the black and gentle forest

growing softly beneath my naked skin,

and move then to your navel

to that center where you start to tremble,

kissing and biting you

until I reach

the tight and secret core

welcoming me,

coming at me

with a male’s hardened fire.

Slide then down to your legs

firm and strong like your certainties,

the legs that support your whole body,

and bring you to me;

the legs you use to hold me

and wrap at night around mine,

so different, soft and feminine.

I would kiss your feet, my love

- they still have so many roads to travel without me -

and then I would go back

to encircle your mouth

until I can possess your saliva, your breath

until you enter me

with the force of the tide

enveloping me with the ebb and flow

of a furious sea

that will wash us ashore

sweaty and spent

on linen sands.”

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