Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

You dream of her
Who is not yours

To dream of. She
Is Mario’s wife, Lucia,

And you see her
Moving in the kitchen.

You have been invited
To dinner by Mario.

Sit down he says, you
Are our guest, and hands

You a glass of Chianti,
And calls out to Lucia

In Italian and she replies
And comes to the door

Of the kitchen, and waves
And smiles, and releases

In you small flying lusts
Like white doves. Mario

Talks of big business
And you sit and listen

To both him and to
Flamenco guitar music

From the CD player
In the corner, and peep

Up to see Lucia dancing,
Her hands held high,

Her eyes closed, her smile
In place like a sunrise

Over the high hills
Of Italy and between

Her milky soft breasts.
Mario sips and talks,

His dark eyes like deep pools
In which you imagine

Lucia baths and swims.
You smell the scent of her,

The smell of dinner cooking,
The scent of the flowers

In the tall glass vases.
You want to embrace her,

Hold her close to you,
Feel her warmth seep

Into your bones and flesh.
Mario raises his glass

And sings some aria
From a Puccini opera,

And you sit and smile
And hum along to Mario’s

Tender tenor, thinking
Of Lucia, imagining her

Beneath you on the bed
In the their bedroom

Along the long hall
With paintings by

Unknown Italian artists
Hanging along the wall.

Mario smiles as he sings.
His fingers embrace his glass,

His other hand rising high
To the sky is full of rings,

Each one catching and reflecting
The sunlight, as Lucia enters

With her gentle sway of hips,
Raising her glass of Chianti,

Then sipping slowly before you
With luscious sexual lips.