(her delicious cauldron of soup)
I could be so more sure
if I didn't handle everything so
It's a paradox, I know,
like when you leave you arrive, and endure
the opposites until they reconcile.
My thoughts have dripping fingers. They mark you.
Listen for bubbling breath - what dark hue
shall we slip into?
These animal wiles
feel like second skin sometimes. Doing this
dissolving this streaming toward who knows what
always accelerating bright meltdown
ribboned by hot fingers pairs of warm arms
past reconciled I let go completely
details bow to me backwards
each a poem
This man fits me like my favorite Leviís,
jeans boy-cut straight from the waist
just caught on hip-bones. His back-pocket
palms memorize my curves,
hold me up when knees hinge weakly
at the inquiries of insistent lips,
at whispered imaginary memories
of bowling. Denim dampens with stories
he spins for me on a rooming-house
mattress. Shasta daisies in a wine carafe
nod as he peels blue suede, threadbare
with a studentís poverty, from eager hips.
Like my Leviís, I grow pliable with affection.
I met him Tuesday, this man I've known all my life.