You In That Peasant Blouse

You in that peasant blouse.
Your dark hair cascades to your shoulders smelling of garlic and lavender,
I inhale it as I stand behind you.
My fingers work through the pleats of rough muslin and pause
at the valley of your sternum.
My fingers move up cupping you, pulling you close and my temples
throb as your bottom touches me.

You in that peasant blouse.
That’s my first memory of you, and I wondered at your choice of clothes.
Were you here to serve me
or to make me serve you, knowing I’d surrender to your voluptuous
looks and firm commands?
The earth tones of your clothes and skin the reflection your own earthiness of outlook and desire.

“You, in that peasant blouse,
turn around.” When you do, I pull it up; and with your arms in the air, still in the sleeves,
my mouth makes your breasts, your underarms, your nipples and your neck the center of this urgent moment.
With a gasp, your arms float; then they fall around my shoulders
roping me in with that peasant blouse.

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copyright 2001 scjones