The Little Boats of Desire

You appeared on the lake alone
in the little boat of desire
entirely of your own making.
Something darker had visited
so you were there. Suddenly
& vividly remembering, the erotic
life softly opened up before us.
You see, I was on the lake also.
We can now agree those were
more innocent times, so not much
was done about it. But finding
ourselves weary, we lowered our bodies
& found the water was warm, smelling
of earth. We swam past each other
slowly, exchanging vessels.
After rowing to the shore,
we could have enacted the predictable;
falling on each others flesh.
But we knew that on arrival
it would be about getting on our knees,
putting our lips to the surface
& slowly drinking, like all the other
animals that had gone before us.

Mark Jason Weston

Originally published in The Bucks County Writer, Fall 2004

This is a Simple Request

David, I must say,
your hands alone
are the ones
that even now -
calloused, with nails
bitten down
to their soft swells
of pink flesh -
hold the secrets
of her warm dark places.
I swear
I can still smell what must be
the musk of your pubes in the sweet
darkness of her body:
a scent she will not let go of.
Yes, I have been seeing
you in all the cafes,
the same cup of coffee
in those hands now
otherwise empty without her
solid reality. I am the one
behind strategic newspapers
you no longer read.
This is a simple request:
dream your scent
back from her body.
There is only room
for one growing obsession.


Mark Jason Weston

Originally published in Verandah Volume 14 (Australia)

People Like Us

And desire gone cold like the thin skin
on weak warm gravy that has sat out
too long, and the meat not eaten, and the wind
now making a dance of the bedroom curtains.

And now the weather holding its breath;
our skins prickling with late afternoon heat.

All this, so late in the day, is no surprise.
Perfection is out of the question for people like us.

What's left is the strong will to rouse ourselves,
take one of those long walks of which
we have always been fond. Look.

Outside the window, the reassurance of
the seemingly endless orange grove.

Let's walk down its long avenue,
moving ourselves from moment to moment,
allowing each step to warm us into a deep
nostalgia for the future which has already
been mapped out for people like us.

Mark Jason Weston

Originally published in The Baltimore Review Winter/Spring 2004

Night Club

Each one of them different.
But each is someone
who has had his heart
toyed with until fork-tender.
Now, here, dancing
to his own music,
each one thinks it
would be nice to need another.
You are also here.
This has to do with trying
to achieve some approximation
of what you desire.
This is more than the slender hope
of a man on vacation
in a land of beautiful people.
You see, when each one smiles
to the other, he is convinced
he can taste blood.

Mark Jason Weston