Hanging Naked from a Clothesline
Last night,
I hung naked from a clothesline.
It was sticky hot,
not even a whistle of cool
to lift the wilting hairs off my neck.
With nothing else,
I offered myself to you.
And you, you
walked right by.
I dangled,
until fireflies caught my eye,
flying and flickering and flirting
with each other and the moon.
I dropped to the ground,
leaving the empty line to hang on its own
and I ran off to play.
Not Quite Casa Dulce
Dawn in Cabo Matapalo
wakes warm and still and thick,
the fan spinning shadows
against a blue, bare wall.
Breast to back we lie, thigh to thigh,
as though we were not strangers.
Inside this white, sheer net
is where our story ends.
I sit alone on the rocky shore
drinking coffee from a white tin cup,
watching black crabs scramble
and pelicans dive and fly.
Even when they come up empty
salt water dripping,
the pelicans dive and fly
over and over.
Unciatim I: little by little.
I woke one morning to construction,
banging and clanking and hammering.
By noon, they’d left.
Scaffolding and wooden walls surrounded me.
I kicked, screamed, beat at the windows,
wanting the light, and the now hidden tree.
Enough, a voice cooed. Be still.
So I curled up in my cocoon.
*
It’s just a little matter of time between ready, and not.
*
You tempted,
you teased.
Out I crawled.
Only to realize my unformed wings dragged behind me.
Stain
I am watercolor. I wash off. – Ann Sexton
I want to stain
your tongue
your lips
your softest, pungent skins.
I want my handprint
on the back of your neck,
my fingerprints
in the folds of your thighs.
I want my scent,
my juice,
to leak,
drip,
spread
like the ink of a security tag
broken in two.
Instead, I suggest you shower.
Unciatim II: little by little.
It takes three flights to get away from you.
At the first stop,
I begin to breathe.
By the third,
the miles between us create enough space,
finally.
Don’t beat yourself up, you said
closing the hotel door behind you,
leaving me in the bed,
naked,
convincing myself
that this time wouldn’t be as hard.
