Compliments Poem by Joi Miner

He thinks
The wrinkles in my brain
Are sexy
Wants to read them
Like Braille.
Sometimes, though,
I’d prefer he
Travel my body’s curves
With his hands
Explore my inner regions
With tongue
Then finger
Then shaft.

He says
I have writer’s hands
Long fingers
Meant to attack a
Keyboard ferociously
With their tips.
Sometimes, though,
I’d rather
Wrap them up in his hair
Dig my nails into his back
Massage away the pain of
No lovemaking
during menses.

He raves
My body’s artism
Fascinated with
The lines of me
Says I would be
A sketcher’s dream
A blessing to the page.
Sometimes, though,
I’d rather take Polaroid
Nude photos
To stick under his mattress
That he shows his
Friends, but never tells me so.
Make a sex tape
With a rating off the map
Bending my back
In a mystic rhythm.

He extols
The music in my tone
A symphonic masterpiece onstage
Melodic and enticing
Siren to his willpower
Knee-weakening and intense.
Sometimes, though,
I’d rather he
be mesmerized
by my moans
shouts testing the
acoustics in the shower
how many pitches
can I sing your name
we’ve cracked glass before.

He says my eyes
Share the secrets
Of my soul
Windows to a world
He longs to know
Sometimes, though,
I’d rather he respond
To their
Bedroom beckoning
Their squinting pleasure
At explosion
Tears running from
Them down
My cheeks
From the ecstasy.

He compliments my
Presence
My essence
My body
My being
But I don’t think
He’s seeing
The realities of my
Just wanting to be wanted
Needing to be needed
Longing to be longed for
Sometimes the objective
Is to be objectified.