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the urge to
push the envelope,
bright red and pulsing
with the beat of lust,
makes you mediocre.
remember dante and
the taste of hellfire in
red wine that goes down
as smooth as butter.

women that fairly fly
on the arms of their
society husbands, witches
with hooked noses in
green faces, a la the
wizard of oz. you used
to see them with their
lapdogs, legs spread on
hot afternoons while the
sun beat down on their
corseted backs. now
there is charity this and
international that.

what is
the sound
of blood
making it's
way down
your legs?

a leaky wench needs
to be staunched, or
so the saying loosely went.
opening yourself with
letter openers that you
use to read the letters
of your husband's mistress,
you count zero allusions
and ten requests for cold
hard cash for lying on her
back while he
comes without looking into
her eyes.

what is the sound
of a pen writing
your name until
just maybe you'll
be remembered as
silly and arrogant?

the days march on, fridays
coming twice a week,
meeting your young lover.
gasping as he places his
mouth on all the
sagging places, the
ponderous breasts,
and outstretched belly.
you always wondered
why old women had
pouches just
above their crotch,
you vowed it would never
happen to you.
your fifth grade teacher
pregnant with the venom
of a thousand
indifferent students.

can he move into the curve
of your belly? the fleshy place
where no child ever grew?
place your skin over his shoulders
and burrow in until only his
feet are visible from the street
below.

perhaps you should lift belly
like stein, finding an aider
in the cesspool of the streets
of los angeles where men
with brown faces trawl the
streets for jobs with
cash handed in white envelopes
with no names,
eyes never meeting.
what would it be like
to kiss a woman? would
you bend her back, the cover of
gone with the wind come to life,
moving your mouth to her throat,
ripping it out in one piece.
stealing her words for you,
vampire.

she would have to be a writer.

it all boils down to this:
you've forgotten the never-found
art of putting pen to paper,
the ink on your hands from
grocery lists given to mary,
who sleeps downstairs with
a picture of christ between
her fingers.

she has a young lover
who places dry lips over
hers, never seeking access.

you wonder if he will be like
this on her wedding day,
hips pressed over hers,
his pants a barrier
between skin, not daring
to hide in her symmetry.

the letters coming apart in your
hands like the ashes
of the urn you will soon carry,

letter opener between your thighs
as he presses for entrance.