. . . en La Iglesia de La Puta

He had gone back to see Onan
where he was spilling his seed
on alien ground, soaking into sand
absorbing his future life
if someday he should marry a wife
who wished for a daughter or a son.

He drew his own image, bastard whoreson’s
fleshly bones, on the window in the rain’s
immaculate condensation.

One way she loved him: took him to her bed,
where she watched him, hovering above
his sleep, and like his women came to do,
leaning over, kissing his eyelashes.

Henrietta arrived only
in dreams, and only
upstairs in the New Congress,
where Christina cleaned up after working
while he played in the room beyond the bar.

Later he stayed alone upstairs
with dreams to sough but remember
when the gulls were startled and flew
with the crack of occasional thunder,
zig-zags of light that were rare,
yet he hungered for her all over.

Christina wondered where he was
. . . how could he say? He felt such woe
gathering shards of broken glass,

all the windows blown out by gusts
of wind from heaven. Unusual days . . .
If not upstairs, in La Puta,
he’s down here looking for Henrietta.

(22 May, 3 June 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander