Unbuttoned Tale #4: Making Up
By Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti

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We make tea to make up. Chamomile or ordinary.
It does not matter, so long as the making is honey-sweetened.
An argument, a booming, an ever-so loud silence:
Why I can hardly think, or sleep a think.
It is only your reach-out or mine that does that trick.
Who reaches first?
Your thick and thatched blood so much wiser than my own.
It is not in the way that you kiss me —
not our expected and wanted delicate slip of the tongue
the Communion we call we call it. Absolution held within.
Not this time. Not that.
It is about something else.
You kisses harder and fiercer, more possessive,
tongue filling up my mouth as if to prove some point
It says: Here, there is no room for any other .
That this place is taken. Reserved. Has long been so.
And so when you tell me "Come," I follow.
I too want this distance parsed as much as you …
The bed is lined with bells from so many countries,
When we make love, they ring, resonant as chimes.
Only this time, this time, you seek utter possession;
I exist as yours, yes, and you as mine —
this time to prove a point and this time, this time,
the bells ring loud and clear and when … you …
all I can hear, all I see, is that man and how he led
the donkeys over the rough terrain of Greece as they
meandered through the cool of the night.

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"...You seek utter possession;
I exist as yours, yes, and you as mine. "

Photo by Sadi Ranson-Polizotti
Photos by Lizzie Parsons.
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