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This night is no different than the one before
the sun has set, but the heat prevails
its enveloping presence is all around,
permeating my very being… until the heat is all there is,
was or ever will be.
I lie sprawled upon my bed, feeling utterly boneless like a doll
clad only in a flimsy sarong draped loosely around my rounded hips
being more an illusion than for true modesty's sake
I nestle amongst my mountain of pillows and wriggle in sensuous contentment
at the cool and slippery caress of their silken embrace
And I dream of far-away places with snow upon the ground
and icy mountain streams.
But I also have to smile at the folly of my thoughts,
for as every true-born African knows - no matter how far we roam or flee
the further you go - the louder will be the drumbeat in your blood
that feeds the pulse within your core
and you will always throb to an African beat
I stare up at the ceiling fan that does not cool at all,
but rather only stirs the sluggish, moist heat about
and I lift up high my tawny mane of hair to free my damp body from the caressing tendrils of my hair
And I lick my lips in anticipation
as I reach for the glass of icy water waiting near my head
this nectar from the gods slips down my throat in an icy cold caress
As I hold the glass between my lips
I allow a rivulet of cool water to dribble down my throat
and I shiver in delight as I watch the little meandering stream
flow slowly between the hills of my breasts
And my eyes follow its downward journey across my belly,
where it hesitates in the pool of my navel
before spilling in gleeful abandon through the valley of my hips
to soak into the warmness waiting below
My searching fingers close over a slippery ice-cube in the glass
and I slowly rub it across my neck, my arms and my chest
leaving moist, wet trails in its wake
In the soft candlelight I watch this valiant ice-cube give up its life
in a final caress across my breasts
dying in a glittering drop hanging from a puckered peak
And with a gurgling laugh I spread my legs upon my bed
and offer my body to the heat of the night
like a wanton witch of old
eagerly awaiting the caress of her pagan lover in the dark.
Naomi Pollock
March 2001
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