Sometimes

Candlelight mimics fireflies
morse-coding sexual messages in the heat.

Wind like rain from ventilator shafts
breathes out one flame after another.

Smoke simmers:
the agony of cupping burnt-out wicks.

In this sudden bout of Sometimes
when you pray a candle will light forever

or when walls are black holes
that suck away oxygen from fire,

you convince yourself:
maybe sometime you'll fall in love again.

the mouth behind the shadow

the press of her lips was warm
like salmon sunset melting
down your back

            it certainly was a brilliant half-beach
            shore to many sands of crushed shells

& she danced a strange tantric breathing
on your bared chest
legs squeezing out a pattern of rain

            past her hair you noticed how the sun
            burned for a moment just before dying

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator and web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse (www.niederngasse.com). Her poetry has recently appeared in Poet's Canvas, Scrivener's Pen, Sometimes City, Tryst, three candles and sidereality. Recent awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002 Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner.

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