by Janice Colman
(08/16/06)
She lies sprawled on a leather sofa, her legs
adrift like some ramshackle
ship, tits shrieking from an eighth floor
concrete and glass balcony -- take me
shoot my veins with your come
if that will do the trick. He tells her
to lie on the floor for two hours possibly
three to reset her hips which
he claims are off balance, upsetting
her spine. Injecting
pain directed toward
her right foot, she can't
listen to music, stream
into the night hunt flaunting
her muscles for a phantom audience. She
figures not even a raging fuck could free
a mind so securely anchored. Besides,
no man online or off knows how
to pluck her words like flowers presenting
her with a bouquet -- here
are your words that I will water
with images of your choosing. She is
tired of lonely keys typing when
Garth's tongue can light up the line
from cunt to ass or the reverse as if
she had set tea lights in an arc, each
flaring into separate and joint flame.
Can you set her ablaze on some
distant lake with shooting stars and
northern lights, something
that fills forever as she is
homesick for Garth's cock.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux