Essential Oils (Poetry)

I do not know who taught me how to love...
I know it wasn’t them —
my parents — for there was nothing ever seen —
no trace of it between the arid contours of
their passion-free dustbowl of a marriage.

I wasn’t born from love — a product of some
warm and intimate or joyfully erotic exchange —
all damp sheets and sighs — wet kisses in the dark...
they never reached an oasis — a way in
to their own or the other’s secret core of pleasure.

Later on I felt sorry for them — marvelling
how they could function — swim a shallow life —
with no depth of feeling. Those essential oils of tenderness
enthusing touch and taste came naturally to me — desire
a happy flood of hungers I pursued.

I doubt either ever knew the highs of orgasm —
sensations cast adrift on inner seas —
their tepid beach stretched sunless — all seasons empty of
hot dreams — the briefly-boiling surf a memory
paddled in once only and me
the creature who came forth —
the sex-tainted child they never understood — flesh feared
way too sensual to be theirs.