Whatever you did to attract me, it happened,
you cracked me, attacked the faulted decades
when I’d martyred me, and you, who started me,
finished in me, laid me between rocks, tight bastioned
places, faced music with me. What music we’d be,
singing skimmingly, simpering mostly.
A down home song so faint it’s ghostly:
tune of the devil who beats his wife,
the swoon of the wife who tends the flocks.
the low-lying husband stroking his cock,
while the shepherds watch.
But watch. Something else is happening. I’m
chrysalising. Enticing. And it’s not simple
shimmer, this, it’s bling, it’s bringing leavening.
It’s the moment you reckon my reckoning.
Molesting your aspect those dizzy lights, those
bright white mites you see after you rub
your eyes. They can swim for hours. Would be,
your glowering remained until the rumble-roar
of train at the window summoned some survival,
the too-loud clamor heralding my arrival.
Then you. So invested in being incognito.
But now you’ve been caught; we’re equal.
Author Discusses Poems