My Mexican Lover - Beverly Koepplin

Your skin is only slighter lighter than the shadows

of the evening that fill my bedroom and flicker in the candlelight

so that you are brown against black as you move around me,

over me, on me, in me -  a symphony of dark surrounding me.

Your skin is wet against mine and tastes like grape nectar,

no, chili oil, sweet and sharp on my tongue, like a strange wine

I cannot and do not want to stop tasting.

I lick the drops that fall from your brow 

so I can have more – of you.

Your skin smells like the clean fertile dirt in which you work,

of the ground on which you walked those many miles to be here,

of the hot sun in which you spend your long days.

I love the smell of you – my earth in these moments, 

my moon, my stars.

I do not remember how you came to be here, 

maybe an exchange of looks

over the rims of our glasses as we downed our tequilas,

maybe a beckoning finger, 

and perhaps a silent stroll through the parking lot.

It does not matter – your skin rubs against mine, 

and we start a fire.

Ah, my Mexican lover, 

I cannot understand the words you murmur.

In the hot darkness as we find a rhythm 

that transcends our cultures,

a dance of your brown skin against my fairness.

I want more of the taste, the smell of your skin, 

of you – my Mexican lover.

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