Nights with Diane

When we went to check the circus

known for the thick-lipped fish lady

and the adroit lizard man,

we ended up having a threesome

with that Turk’sh midget,

whose uncovered cock could pass

as his middle and third leg

and shoeless height proved to me

that fucking without kissing

was like washing my stinky pussy

without brushing my teeth—

useless incomplete routine.

 

The last time we met up for fun,

we went to the lesbian bar

that served mountain moonshine

and allowed us to smoke weed

in a huge glass beer bong

and where we met a lipstick butch,

who seemed quiet but cute

in leather, boots, and chain,

and brought her to the neon-lit hotel

where we stayed for cruising

only to find out that she was mute—

born with a short tongue.

 

 

Mimicking Amy

When I was out of blue gel
and canned sticky spray,
I began using paper glue
for an old bouffant style
looking like an untidy nest
emptied by birds long ago
when I still climbed trees.

The fair glow of my skin
turning dull, yellow-pale,
I smoked a pack each day
burning the itchy bruises
and the red bumpy boils
I wanted to scab then pick
while puffing on the patio.

I got tattoos not for the art
or the edgy-cool ink images
my friends would talk about
in between cold gulps of beer
or glass pipe hits or snorts
of knife-fined pure cocaine
at the house parties I hosted.

Once the pin-pulsated pain
no longer made me cringe,
I bought lancets and razors
and tried their sharp edges
on my consenting thighs
and arms that welcomed
the blades without tremor.

After pulling most of my hairs
on the head, skin, and groin
and my fingernails with pliers,
I stared at the broken mirror;
bald, gaunt, and all wounds,
I begged my mom and dad:
Please make me go to rehab.

Lowing of the Down

You should have pushed
the gentleness of my hand
that begged without words
when I brushed your hair,
instead of telling me
the same excuse:
tired from work
or waking up early the next day.

It was always in winter
when my deserted thighs 
waited for the strokes 
of your confident waist
or the strength of your legs
or the motion of your weight
I expected to comfort
my pitiful fever.

When I pressed my breasts
against your back
so you would remember my skin
and feel its desperate shaking,
you could have stood up
and moved into the guest room
instead of pretending
that you were already asleep.

I learned about oils
and about tissues
and light pressure 
because I wanted to massage
your head exciting my fingers,
your aches I felt I could soothe,
and your gym muscles
I thought were mine.

You should have told me early
that you were seeking
a musky chest;
I would have let go of myself 
to find someone
who would not complain
about the scent of patchouli
on my nape.

Catching Wilbur and His Muse

I clicked inbox,
saved what came up,
Word opened it:
Wilbur’s The Catch—
a strange poem
about fishing,
a woman’s dress,
double meanings.

On the oak chair,
restlessness, I read,
read it again,
but understood none;
idiot reader—
I called myself,
stood up to smoke
Jamaican weed.

Reread I did,
slowly browsing
a Merriam-Webster,
searching online,
checking forums,
all literature,
then I found porn—
Sexy Couple.

Her sheer chemise
licorice silk,
in red stilettoes,
she wore perfume
the hulky guy
sniffed… a Chanel,
No. 19
classy, indeed.

I saw no sex
but French kissing,
slight nudity,
a gentle effleurage
the porn soft
so I closed the site
to read again
for the fifth time.

Now I grasped it,
the confusing poem—
Wilbur, her muse,
a fisher or a fish
of each other,
but still uncertain
if I got lured
or did catch them.

Genesis

Our story was somewhat adapted
from the Bible. Adam and Eve.
And the snake. She suddenly came
when we needed her. A change
in our home. We were all thrilled.

She taught me how I should touch
her lips. Gentle as my breathing.
When to bite. I was shuddering but
hesitant. She showed him a lot
of stuff. How he could soften up
the rocks. Blowing the smoke
the right way. We were miserable.

Our Adam succumbed to his bullet
wound. Eve free from the snake.

Household of Three

When I told you
I needed to find myself,
it was lying;
not lost, I did find
your brother
after you introduced him
to me; I moved in.

My first night
in your mother’s house,
your room
adjacent to ours,
I just couldn’t
forget you; our hushful
moans still bothered.

Your restlessness,
I thought, a thin blanket
that settled
between your thighs,
a folded pillow
deafening your ear, cold
lips calling my name.

The lighter clicks
you heard weren’t mine;
the noise
of crumpled tin foil
was his hands;
you called the cops on us,
my man now gone.

I refused to stay,
your fingers on my arms
hurting me,
your warming words
grinning a taunt;
try finding yourself to feel
how it was, not a lie.

Our Last Rendezvous

A meet up in a bar,
my age,
his hug a tight hello,
my smile,
her greetings a lean,
my cheek,
I was a willing swing.

Tired of silly games
                          but
wanted to play still,
                           so
I joined the cab ride
                         and
the night motel stay.

We alternated brandy
with spit,
chilled tequila shots
with sweat,
watermelon martinis
with juices
of early excitement.

The pain of his weight
                             on
my thighs was eased
                             by
her lips hushing mine
                              in
a familiar contraction.

It did happen again,
the tryst,
but some weeks after,
the phone
ended, not a message,
the clock
froze, no 10 pm alarm.

TV news broadcasted
                             her
face soaked in blood,
                             his
torso tied then taped,
                             my
body dead on the sofa.

Sending Him Off

Fortieth day,
the final departure of his soul,
here I am in the short-time motel
wondering if it is cheating,
the quiver of my guilt.

Her hand gentle
on my cheek, it slithers toward
my lip I bite, her meek-slow thumb
tracing the form of its bow,
my quiet an approval.

I wish, like before,
he is feeling my anxious belly,
its flutter as I night-crave for skin,
the softness of blossoms,
her knee on my thigh.

Not Without You Around

Is this why you told me
to move on, to be exact,

to choose her over you
as though it was simple?

I’m with her now in bed
without you begging us,

with your aroused eyes,
to do this or to try that.

Is this how you wanted
your riddles to sort out,

the hesitation of fingers,
the indifference of lips?

Why couldn’t you reveal
that you would be gone?