Fucking Her

I first said I’d write a poem for her if she’d . . .
No, she said she’d buy me a drink if I . . .
It seemed to take years, she had to have an in,
you know, like an operator in the game,
call it what you will, the con, the grift, the . . .
She said, Your daddy wanted more than love
for me to be your mama, even though I
was old enough to be your older sister . . .
That’s what she said shortly after he died
with a knife in his belly playing poker
as was his life spent going after the dollar,
and said she’d buy me a drink if I’d take her
home with me, so I did, and we didn’t sleep,
no, you don’t sleep, as you well know, when
you are making love, not with a new lady
whose only reason for being there is you,
or so you need to think, you have such need
to be all that’s there inside capable of being
where she is and wanting to celebrate her,
knowing she’s doing the same for you,
your heart’s on fire, I used to say before
I got wise to the lingo you sell yourself love
in the most delicate, dangerously so, 
moments before you read that and write this.

As you know, I went home with her.
She came to want a baby, she said.
That’s why I’ve come back to be
with her, though I don’t love her
but know my body has a purpose in 
giving her what she wants of this world . . .

(3 January 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander