Praise for Equal in Desire
Matson's work is powerful and tender. He has a clarity which is deceptive: the seeming simplicity that comes from a thoughtful and complex technique. The poems speak direct to the heart. ~ Diane DiPrima, author and poet.
Remarkable! How rare poems like these are. How important..open and delicate. ~ Robert Bly, author and poet.
published by: ManRoot Press, 1983
format: perfect bound, 5.25 x 8.25 inches
numbered pages: 21
art work by: Renee June
photograph by: Carole Wright
Kiss me with lips round as the cratered moon
and hotter than the sun going down.
It will spill dawn across the sky soon:
the sun's changing and dying as we are, and at death
its older cousins spawned most of our atoms.
But when these molecules smear into the cosmic depth
we won't be here to feel, or to understand,
so let us feel this moment with our hands.
Let me feel your skin with mine.
Let's fill this star-trapped time
with love's play, dream the curves of flesh
are warped space near black holes, sprays of moles
the maps of constellations where so much began.
Let's spend this star-born time making love.
Pelvis, throw a boned and furry shove
at mine while your eyes roll up
and mine go splayed. Slanted sight
can witness better the horny dance
our atoms make while they're together.
Equal In Desire
Evening sunlight is a narrow band
that angles through a curtain slit
and bends across your face.
You break its line discarding pants,
smooth hands over breasts and belly
and invite me to come forward.
I do. I put hands on flesh,
cup gland and muscle, feel rib cage
and hipbone as tension climbs.
Calla lilies and cattails are white
and green-brown in a bedside vase.
You pant lightly. Bend your waist
through poses a nymph would take
or princess dreaming of a lover.
Your wrist limp upon the sheet.
I am fighter, cocksman, hunter
on a hillside, proud male
turning to objects that turn him on.
My eyes stare. Hands prowl and reach.
Your pose is mold to my response:
half of me comes out strong.
I dream your closed lids hide lit eyes.
Does your lethargy invite me to proceed?
I listen inward for next moves and I recoil.
I'm tired of these roles!
Light splatters across the ceiling.
(I flinch from memories of
first moves receiving first refusals.
How many times I risked my innards'
"Yes" and was told "No!"
Beauty turns a cold shoulder.
Raises eyebrows: "You're beneath me.")
Enough! I've proceeded as point person enough!
I rebel against my training:
I want the flow to go the other way.
I want equal attention!
I'm equal in horniness!
My body wants its curves and bones appreciated.
I am not all push and no receive!
I want to love you with my yin and yang!
I'm not all male and no female.
The sky breaks open and pours down
floppy petals and green-brown spikes
that change into each other.
I pull arms along my thighs,
lie back, invite you to come forward.
Come to me now! Give to me.
Turn toward me with lit eyes open.
Put your hand here. And here.
You do. Oh yes. Yes! I smile.
I am athlete, old warrior, invalid,
nubile boy not knowing what to do.
My pose is mold to your response:
another half of you comes out.
Virago with gold rings, nurse,
coquette, suburbanite following desire
through barriers. Proud woman
turning to objects that turn her on.
Your eyes stare. Hands prowl and reach.
Cala lilies fold around cattails,
cattails grow wing-like tips,
envelop lilies' stamens.
I sop attention till love
pours out my eyes and hands.
I try out new roles and play with old.
Our curves and hardnesses glow.
You sop attention till love
pours out your eyes and hands.
You cruise through old roles and play with new.
Windows are velvet black.
Tension is spiky then slack.
Eyes are soft and hard.
You rub your ass against my belly.
I fold my arms across your breasts.
We slide into each other. Oh yes. Yes!