Monday, December 19, 2011


When half a century ago the last poem flowed like orange crayfish backward up Little Sand Creek
and that part of Idaho was isolated from others who might see you fucking the woman you loved,
I was at the rolltop desk next to her loom in the study behind the light where white bowl and pitcher
set beside the red settee in front of the window with ivy trellising the wall above the flower garden,
mostly bougainvillea and jacaranda in the jungle we knew once in mexico where we were loving
as well but not as furiously, as relentlessly, as pleased as now, emerging with my white skin brown
as the stand of late autumn trees overhanging the water, cock wet from your pussy's tangled nest,
and we were ready to go our way, once or twice meeting again when we were no longer married.

(19 December 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander

No comments:

Post a Comment