I’m going to bed when you wake up.
The room is full of light in summer,
all white when the winter’s here to stay
six if not seven months. I go south
in my head. I know women there who drawl.
A hook of the thumb and her skirt falls.
At night we fucked in front of the church.
Cars went by at their usual rate of speed.
We loved to go as long as we could
without coming, me anyway . . .
I asked for your p. o. mail addresses
in Washington Heights and Riverdale,
and you must have loved me then,
your voice rose and floated through the air
to me and I caught the sound of your lips
with a determined kiss. I meant to be
the man you could not do without.
What did I know about your heart, your soul?
So little so far I haven’t written.
I flail in the dark, I want to touch you.
As it is, there is nothing to be done.
My life is grinding down, sweet love,
and yours is picking up speed, on your way
to the admiration you have coming
and along your way the love that looks for you.
Find that park for me, you know where it is
now you’ve loved your body and drowsed
on the grass. If I were there, could we go
inside the mansion, where all our ghosts are,
would you let me lift your skirt to love you?
(16 June 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander