she shakes something loose in me, it's why
I put up with her, thousands of nights all the same:
she calls beforehand, a loud bar in the back
and asks what I'm doing, remember winter?
remember Kansas? oh sugar has it really been so long?
I know she'll be over in an hour, tipped
over the neckline of that black dress she wears,
spilling into the territory of midnight and candy:
she tries to flirt, cannot see that I am bored,
settles down on my couch cross-legged.
the up is in one hand, the down in the other,
and the pulse of her heart can't decide
which would be the better way to die. (we always
meet like this, in the twilight of our lesser
selves.) what if you could run forever, would you?
but what if they could never catch up, then?
you could go for miles, you and the sky
and that wholesome American sense of free.
what if you could just wind down, feel
complete and simple in that after-sex way,
just lay there with his yoke still on
and sleep? but what if they never found you,
couldn't pass post-mortem judgment, then?
I say, I know they tire you but the burden is not
your body or your presence. we cannot sacrifice
any more for their comfort. she ignores me,
goes to the back bedroom and curls up,
hem hefted over the curves, the curves.
it is not an offering and she knows in the morning
I will kiss her mouth, touch her face, let her go.