Thursday, December 13, 2012


Cathleen wrote from San Francisco.
She was going to Paris again,
did he want to come? Did she know
places there he could wash dishes?
She didn’t reply. He felt like shit.
He should never have said it.

Melindra, as always, loved early sex.
He, in turn, loved to fuck her then.
The day was beginning, a long spell
before the owls’ eyes grew bright.
She fucked him back, raising her hips
high to catch the tears he wept in her.

Paula and Tony, Clark and Sanchez
headlined the ball room, as usual.
He sometimes looked at her and loved
her all over again. The only time
he loved, he told himself, rehearsing,
wondering why he never told her.

He kept writing. He turned to songs.
He didn’t have to show them now.
The scholarship was down the drain.
Where the soap went after dishes
were done. Removing rubber gloves,
climbing the circular stairs.

Why don’t you tell the truth?
Do you have to be so mean?
Why don’t you ever come round
before the sea takes its wrath
out on me, and the moon shines
brightly and makes no sound . . .

He wadded up the paper and sailed
a ball of failure across the room.
The first couplet was like a song
getting under way. But the rest
went off-key by the fifth line,
music long gone before the end.

He missed DG. He wondered
about Rose and Dave. Desire
increased, he needed a new gig.
How do you bring back a dead
feeling? Do you look behind
the climb and risk a long fall?

To catch the way my eyes shine
brightly, keenly, an owl’s round
gaze lures me on, I need to fly.
I need to hoot and howl. Play
the owl and ruffle my feathers
in her muff, be wet with her love.

(13 December 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

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