Erotic Home

F. Richard Thomas Garden Through black branches of the budding apple tree, the gibbous moon rises. Down here, I'm scraping aside the hard clumps that litter my own small plot- stones and crystals that have made their own decisions for millions of years. The beans have spent millennia seducing bees, and with the bee's help, Chinese botanists, thousands of years ago, bred the blossom of the peony with the look and fragrance of a woman's genitals. The potatoes, endive, and escarole, like my dog, have studied for centuries how to get along with me. But it's clear that the sixty-some years I've tried, are not enough to understand the wizardry of water, moon, and earth, not even the salty bloom of my lover's mouth. Sunday Morning, Half Asleep Fingers curl into belly. Chest and stomach press your back. Bones hum. When the Milky Way whirls, dive to the single star where our children's names are writ. Nose and lips glide through hair. Tilt your shoulder.  Tuck it under my chin.  Eyelids open, close, slow.  First light bends around the moon of your hips, tips our bed, blood iris, to the sun.

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F. Richard Thomas has published eight collections of poetry, including his most recent, Death at Camp Pahoka (Michigan State University Press). In 2004 he received the Mark Twain Award from the Society for the Study of Midwestern Literature for his poetry and fiction. email: F.R.Thomas