A little whisper in one ear is all.
Who will believe a storm can come of it?
She is in his arms, or is he in hers?
This throbbing, heartbeat, counterpoint, love’s ache,
And what else is there to do on Sunday?
Surely the days of the week are equal . . .
There is this wildness no matter how old
a body gets, arousal as ever,
consummation to keep from dropping dead–
that’s a barroom quip turned on its flat head . . .
And she’s no occasion for laughter.
Wears a dress that leaves nothing left to dream,
gamine smile luring you to her own street,
wearing nothing underneath, like she said
in better days, before they quit speaking
body language. He thought he would leave here
before she arrived, going to bring her
where she was dreamed, between sleep and fever
that’s called insomnia in all the books,
cradle of drugs for any occasion,
where once he could see out in the alley
cop cars driving through turning right, dead end
to the left, and this woman with her dress
coming off asked him to help get it on,
and so the annals of marriage are filled
with insignificant moments purloined
from the law, and she could attest to risk,
too young to be here but in fifty years
another lady hooks her arm in his
and leaves, there’s too much to do together
before the coach arrives, midnight striking
its fiery warning, where do they go now
but one place or another: the stars blink,
meteors fall, for the first time their lives
mesh like skin molded to a lover’s touch.
(26 March 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander