Indian Givers

We promised the Indians tomorrow,
but their tomorrow never did come, 
so, babe, I believe in today.

Today I want to sing you a song, 
crush your ears with my thighs, 
place your hand on my breasts 
til we no longer remember the start 
or the finish. I want you to come hard 
and scream, tell me more than you 
ever told anyone in your whole secret life
about lazy-eyed lovers and black-pupiled
women who lay in your arms, preparing
this place just for me--halleluiah!
I want you to smear Hershey kisses
all over my back, to suck my big toe and draw 
my lips exactly where you want  kisses, too.
I want to write you a poem about 
how a frog loved a pig, laugh at the moon, 
dye our hair green, tickle your fancy, 
and share Peking Duck on an expensive 
lace tablecloth imported from Italy.
I want to sit in the wind, pretend 
that we're sails, wear our best shoes 
to wade in the surf and sprawl on the sand, 
watching the crabs until morning.

Then, if we're lucky, babe, and do this 
just right, when we've finished today, 
tomorrow will be yesterday, 
slipped by with no headlines announcing.


Pris Campbell
©2004

Published in Dufus Journal 2004 (Lummox journal online)

Artwork: Afterglow by John Carroll Doyle
  courtesy of Allposters.com

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