Getting hers pierced was erotic,
Lisa tells us over strawberries.
We lick the juice from our fingers
while she lifts her shirt to show us
the silver loop. I want to watch her
make it move, muscles of her belly
like waves, the way the woman
at the Moroccan restaurant danced,
the cymbals on her fingers tinny
and sweet. In Leslie's backyard
full of women, we're eating sweets
and talking about eating,
so when Cheryl first mentions navels
they could be oranges.
Then the stories: fingers, tongues.
I don't usually get excited by navels
but with all this talk and Lisa's shirt
rising like a curtain, I'd like to stick
my thumb in one. Look how easily
we build desire, skin and words.
I open my mouth for another bite.
Poems by Melody Lacina:
for Comet Hyakutake
TEN: An Anthology of Northern California Poets