Two Poems by Judyth Hill

Silk Camisole

Love on a hot day-
bouquet of weak in the knees
dark night toss and turn
twisted sheets

wind in the pines,
the way sand stays warm
long after dusk, and still
the waves of that sultry sea wash in and in.

it’s part tropical,
mostly mountain,
rimrock above timberline
a long way to down
where ferns grow in dense underbrush,

Hell, it’s Russian Olives come to bloom in May,
crazy moon rise any month,
you know that aroma surely.

It’s a woman on lovefire,
all ember and gleam,
whiff of dark chocolate
waft of jasmine ginger,

rampant sweetness
on a breeze of cove and cave,
the hidden, the mysterious,
the arcane, other languages,
lost keys, amethysts
and labyrinth.

Come find me, this scent says,
I am a doorway woman,
watching rain fall
in the green canyon.

The Angels that Break Us

… break you open out of who you are…

Love is a controlled burn gone haywire.

If high winds prevail
the canopy will catch and you’ll be swept into flame,
wishing you had done some stretching before the full asana of surrender.

…If I were with you, the impassioned poet says,
I would put hot and cold compresses on your …

He tells me, poetically,
I want to do to you, Neruda’s gorgeous line:
What Spring does to the cherry trees.

Maybe I need to say something memorable back.

I want to do to you,
I should say, in my best bedtime voice,
what Autumn does to the maples, so drop your leaves right now baby.
Or, what winter does to the pine boughs, or, what Summer does to the Milky Way.

Maybe a month-by-month erotic weather watch.

Is that too abstruse?

Poetry doesn’t seem needed here –
instead, a traincar, a cigar, a suggestive aside, a torrent of roses, 380 stitch designer sheets, a
cloud bank, a gold ring, paella and rioja, very dark, a clock tower, no, that’s dangerous;

Lingerie, I think, do I even remember, the clover and winter rye soft lawn and champagne in
crystal too good for outside, is this how it’s done?

I know what – I’ll say, I want to be your cupcake,
I want to be 3 sweet bites and a lap full of crumbs,
a plaything for your mouth.

I want you to peel off my skirt, pleat by pleat,
and expose me to your appetite.

I want to be so good you can’t get enough and more is too much, but you just keep going like
there’s no tomorrow, which there isn’t, I learned the hard way.

Stop, not that again.

You are the elk herd, new velveted antlers, seen high on the ridge across from Joe’s oat field
he’s planted for the second year and I adore its shade of verdancy like no other, and they’re
safe, the elk, I mean, safe until September, but after that, watch out, permits will be issued.

Men in camouflage, looking like the woods they are not,
head out into the forest that did not burn, no not this year,
half cocked,
ready to take flesh and bone, sleek skin.

Throw corn meal, make the prayer,
blood shall spill, hillsides ring, split by gunfire, the enflame of hunt become feast.

Bring your hunger, bring your eager mouth, I’ll say,
I’ll say that this time.

Judyth Hill is a lifelong poet, teacher, Storyista, editor, and passionate Literary Arts Activist; She authored the internationally acclaimed poem, Wage Peace, and hasnine published books of poetry, including Dazzling Wobble and Presence of Angels. She was educated at Sarah Lawrence College and is a recipient of numerous literary grants. She is the current President of PEN San Miguel. Judyth conducts poetry, memoir, and ecstatic goddess workshops, and hosts culinary and writing adventures around the globe. FB: @judyth.hill IG: @judythhill Twitter: @judyth_hill

Preview image by K. Haskell, an interdisciplinary visual artist, draftsperson, and illustrator.