Back When
You’d crash
the lamp pitch
us black icepick
of moon slitting
the curtain. Silk
bathrobe sash
lashed my wrists
to the four poster
winds. Silver shot
arced slippery
mercury tasted
tart and salt.
Bristles busked
nipples purple
bloomed beautiful
my breasts.
Ah, my man you
were mad for me—
before bike helmets,
yellow safety
vests and a crossing
guard’s caution—yes,
you were all
stealth and dark
craft—tricky then
as a zipper.
*
Love of my Past Life
Twenty-five years we never
touched outside of coming-
and-going hugs, so vigilant not
to breach the inch between
our breasts. Her ribs a twig
nest, hair a dry clutch
of fragrant sweet-grass,
a Nebraska meadow full
of it. Last we met—candle-
lit booth, all wine drunk
from the bottle—I took her
hand—curled like a bound
foot—wee as a wren
might be in mine. Unfurled
each finger, kissed her dark
palm’s damp heart—I’d dreamt
crushed rose petals, honey
and tea pooled in a spoon,
never bitter lemon of stuck
cough drops, blood of old
pennies in a thrift store purse.
*
Bloated with Edy’s and Lonely
I’m floating in an antebellum
bed-and-breakfast bubbled
claw foot bathtub, beautiful but
for the frill of mildew bordering
the peony print shower curtain.
Skittish about shaving—the razor
from the last dusty pack of Bics
I picked up in the Piggly Wiggly,
in this town with all the heat
but none of the charm of the South.
According to the check-out lady,
the natives are riled up and ready
to fight the plans for a roundabout
and the guy ahead in line buying
a six pack of Bud, fried pork rinds
and a pouch of Southern pride
doesn’t give one shit that his wife
left because her ass was as flat
as the bottom of a cast iron
skillet, and every kid in town
has got the herpes or the clap
and with all the spics coming
in on them caravans they don’t
keep all the gold locked up
in Fort Knox for nothing.