the song wore down—the torches’ querulous pits
slumped into acquiescence.
the radio sputtered—
a movement began—
the doorway resolved the dark canker of your body
advancing with bulldog conviction
upon my unwary bivouac,
the questing snout and red jowls descending
and dispatching the feeble sentry
whose dagger merely ceremonial,
lacks the keenness to render warning persuasive.
to what resilience, what
barred, impregnable fastness
may I retreat
when you oyster me open,
and cleave
the innermost flesh?
I have tried to forget
the black chimney
of your single eye,
but there has been intervention
neither of time or love
enough.
I sit, I serve tea to friends
and they jest
of love and their wilted husbands.
I don’t talk
of your thick hot hand
your spit on my nose
and my old volkswagen thighs.
