a)

i watch myself
fucking, fucking, fornicating.
feeling every jolt/twist/center
of the bodies being bodies with each other.
and i am not myself with you inside me,
i am above me, looking over,
i am the mirror on the ceiling,
no whites in my eyes.
pupil reflection and quiver.
i am not ashamed to be watched by my own hovering.

b)

she did not know it would be like this.
eating mag-pie chocolates on sidewalks
in the potluck-suburbs where they serve vegan food
in hippie churches and dread their hair with bees wax.
the summer's are more beautiful
because no one can foresee the end.
the bottles on their sides
twist their necks to arrows
just to catch the liquid in their throats
and harsh back toxic swallow.
everyone is drunk on something, always.

c)

she is not cut out to be a lover.
she is folded, folded hands and tissue paper.
knee-scar car crash and organic matter chub chub.
she has lost her baby fat but she still hides behind her hair.
she wears her blue dress for no one and lifts it to her waste
to see the outline of her own ass in black panties.
everybody does that, or masturbates in the shower.

d)

she is a rotten squalor something
wearing a knit-bag round her shoulder
a kitten on her lap.
she says things so slow you can't remember where she started
and when she speaks it's like a nasal drip of sweet champagne
with no congratulations.
she did not know jealousy existed outside the confines
of her own sordid dementia.
her hair is the same color of a girl they all called pretty,
but on her it was merely muddy brown.

e)

he loves her so fierce ferocious
that he cannot contain it, that he
forces his way into her and tries to understand
the many many things she says to him,
(and does not speak.)
and so she thinks that it is fruitless
as he bites into her peach and then she coils
as a python and he owns her.

f)

moving into her he cannot help but overpower
her small bones and she's panting
"no, no" when she knows knows
the contours of his pelvis
and his follicles in motion
as she grabs his head into her knees,
twirls the vice that keeps him free.
and they are something understood
but not quite holy.

and then)

when he's done and i am done
but not so done as he,
i lay against him, my bare back
sweat-pooled against his own
knob-torn spine and the two meet
to catch the puddle, share the drink.
he says, "night, baby." and i stare
blink blinking at myselves above
each other and him,
and we are nothing like we thought we'd be,
all the many us of me.
but we are something nearly beautiful
tonight.

01/20/2008

Posted on 01/20/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer