Thursday, June 9, 2011


Last night I could have letdown
            into your lap but the room was numb with ice
clinking people shining at each other purposefully

Seven again or maybe six with sweaty curls
           I could have lowered my body into your smoke and Old Spice
the way you lower a book whose spine is too loose to rebind

You could have held me but there was an explosion of acid
          laughter and the forlorn smell of Christmas wreaths
women with heels like vampire teeth

Remember shredding your cigarettes
         curls of tobacco on tiny pale feet hidden all day behind
the heavy red curtains book-in-lap the only real road out

Fucking cat you hissed as she hit the wall
         remember her monthlong limp and how the orange light
of the hallway terrified me like a kidnapper or a distant country

Years years ago in your summer brown arms on good evenings
        those hard ropey brown arms seven or younger and still almost safe
I descended not onto you but in

No comments: