It is small. The birds sing. A ring of trees shades the house.
There is nothing alive that will stop this from happening.
The big bed in the front room. She says a man put it there.
Upstairs, a room barely large enough to sleep and write.
When the first phase of our fucking is over, we lie still
and talk of the time we have been apart. Apart is her word.
I say split up. She likes that: Split aparts like Plato said.
My cock splits her cunt where the vagina beckons. We fuck
any chance the weather might change, rain begin to fall.
I am enormously happy. She says she is too. I ask why.
The sun stays around the house where the trees bar its way.
She says I can live in the place on California Street
when the rains come in September. The bedroom is private.
The kitchen larger. A room off to one side you can write in.
I remind her I already know, I lived there a while . . .
She has nothing to say to that. My eyes feast on her beauty.
I know, reader, you think this is abominably sentimental.
And it is. Her black hair. Her dark brown eyes. Her olive skin.
The mascara’d eyes even in summer and nowhere to go
she does not want to find on the way. The red painted nails.
She wears little here. Goes naked much of the day and all night
likes to fuck with me, and I with her, until we sleep
at the same time. I wake before her, go upstairs, write this.
(16 April 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander