A Stranger Stands to Say a Few Words
He was seriously committed to his sexual life,
like a deep-sea diver married to the hose,
until lungs became luggage a lover unpacked,
after round number one of the flogger’s straps.
What some call the body politic, that faint ideology
of bashful & blush, he had no tolerance for,
no pleasure in teasing the Velcro restraint with the
artificial sweetener of rescue.
Fifty shades of vanilla, he said, curls the tongue
like a witch’s feet beneath a house from Kansas.
His ice cream had to be burnt and blue, the way
church on Sunday smells like skin with a wall
of candles fornicating flames scorching the eyes
with desire. If no one has anything more to share,
feel free to come forward and touch his hand.
For some it may be the very first time the
bones in your hand will sing. For others the scars
from the night you met will remind you how to
get home. Lost in the Wilderness was his favorite
game. Being chased by a bear, pure joy.
About the Author: Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Drunk Monkeys, Sandy River Review, Xavier Review, Delta Poetry Review, Third Street Review and North American Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents, “is from Brick Road Poetry Press.
Image Credit: Wjlonien “Candle” (2011) CC BY-SA 3.0 Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
As It Ought To Be 
