was the sound of rain on a window sill.
two
ships that don’t pass in the same river
twice.
these are what spared me tonight;
the husks of men you left behind
the size and ambition of hailstorms
something more than fumbling sheets,
barroom two-liners that too often don’t spell
sex
the admittedly utopian belief that free wine
is not always sexual harassment.
the sex that could’ve been was
probably vapid
miscarriaged, meno-
pausal, payment for alimony
that you’d only use on the new jeans
you’ll need to feel skinny again
(even when you’re no longer having
sex).
II.
the two of us could’ve been two fields burnt flat
by hate, that kind of sex.
accidental sex, childhood freeze-tag
sex, you’re a ‘tarmangi’, i’m a ‘garmangi’,
you’re not a child but have sex like you still are
sex. after forgiveness, what sex?
you’d leave after
sex, and i’d go put up pictures of our dream house
on trees in the wilderness,
sex like that.
you could have been Desdamona,
blaming the world for the lust that was yours
but your kitchen is bored; your bathroom
leaves me un-intrigued, looking for more
sex, naked sex, sex in your curtains i guess,
and your curtains leave me
looking for doors.
not because they probably match the
parking lot. because
sexed, unsexed,
you’re lady macbeth
(without all the ‘thy mother’ jokes:
‘i sex you with all my heart until thy
children’s bone teet, thy mother’s a whore’ sex).
or else you’re Romeo i bet, disguised underneath
the sheets like a closet-trannie, a secret-tweaker
no one wants to know the secret of.
no one wants to know
what sex you could have been. try and
keep that kind of thing to yourself
(sex)
