Two Poems Lisbeth Cheever-Gessaman Still Life in Red Though our bed is made mad beneath bare light we smile and play adults with unsmudged lips. A perfect pear.
Kisses always mean something even where lips meet in polite agreement.
The sweet fire of what you forbid me. What you have squired away like an old maid in a overflowing hope chest. I bend to peek and you shut the door Where I sit waiting. Remembering a shimmering satin menage of crimson light rippling in waves gliding past the creamed moonbone of my shoulder. You do not see me anymore.