Susan K. Rowse
If I Were...
If I were to kiss the palms of his hands...
Pour oils as sweet as nectar and sooth his pines...
If I were to kiss his nails then to his palms...
And press them to my cheek where they belong...
And If I were to take each hand in rhythmic yearning...
Hold to my breast to ease his fitful burning...
Then press my lips upon his lonesome mouth...
T'would ease the more his sad and turned down pout.