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cautionary tales
by Lauren Singerfearing only the weight of your wanting,
i come to you, under warm lighting
and want you to forget, for awhile,
the reasons why this doesn't work.
you will go to the bathroom to pee,
and i will sit, cross legged on the bed,
and when you return, we will lie down.
you will turn the small light on,
and i will turn the big one off.
i won't look when you unbuckle your belt
and let it slide to the floor.
i will turn the television on,
to be sure there is something
to accompany our deepened breaths
and when we have to,
we will make it lower.
you will slide in, and i will
make sure that we are covered,
by separate blankets and we will laugh,
though not quite sure what it was we found funny.
and when you touch softly
the dip between my hip and thigh,
i will act surprised, and you will say
"oh"
and it will take several minutes
before i turn to you,
turn myself over,
and let bygones
sink tongues into
each others mouths.
and the rest,
we just let happen,
because morning does come,
and we want to beat it.
03/28/2011 Posted on 03/29/2011
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Paul Marino on 03/29/11 at 04:04 AM damn |
| Posted by V. Blake on 03/29/11 at 06:51 AM For some reason, I thought I'd read each stanza in reverse order. It still makes perfect sense, but goes from an optimistic poem to a pessimistic one. It's kind of awesome. |
| Posted by Michael Anthony on 03/29/11 at 12:54 PM I am so happy to learn this happens all over (or have my fears someone was watching just been justified?) the light of day can be unforgiving.
Oh, and i think we laugh because if enough time passes quirks return to being quirky.
nicely told. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 03/29/11 at 02:21 PM I had to read that second-to-last stanza a couple of times. The movement of the lines and the word play were both pretty intoxicating. |
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