Deluge

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I drown in silken fissures as dawn

Inches across floorboards and into my sheets

Gliding her hands along my supple contours

I find your face in her hands, brush you against my lips

She scratches my tattered morning hair, like you did

Moaning, she licks globules of sweat,

Sweet baubles from dreams of you

Pulling off the sheets, and coaxed by a steam bath

She asphyxiates me with those lithe hands

Play-Date

 

I was a convenient object
In the cupboard of your cognates.
Exposed only for play-dates
And forlorn meditation—
In limbo between rapture
And the cobwebbed bureau.

Does she sleep under my comforter?
Is that the book we bought in Big Sky land
Over burnt coffee on your night stand?
And my card in the windowsill
That printed owl hoots,
“You’re a rare bird.”

Do all unrequited love objects
Occupy dank corner closets?
Perhaps you prefer display,
Nonchalantly say, “it’s from a friend,”
Before demanding oblivion
In momentary caress and thrust.

I have dreams.
We are together again,
You are packing up my things—
My jewels, my poems, my song;
You lead me out the door purring,
 “It was only make-believe.”