Poem for Robyn

 

The window full of saffron stains everything.
I hope you stay longer longer leisure lazy
mouthful of cinnamon and clay, hands
retard the impingement of obligation.

Yes, since I was a little girl, I got them in the third grade, but it doesn't really matter nowadays, I mean it's not like men seldom make passes anymore, contact lens took away all the stigma attached to wearing them, it's like a fashion now.

Feigned sleep, you crush
a peppercorn to release sneezes.
Sunday morning's carnal complacency
and the breaking of eggs on the sheets.

Well that was from my cat, it was in the new apartment, she was lying on my chest and I guess there must have been a noise because she leapt strait up into the air only she used my chin for a launching pad she's never done it before I hope they'll fade in another year they always do.

And you nutmeg skinned all length
in limbs and whims chewing, gnawing
suckling and creaking the bruises blue
and red as America from my white thighs.

You know, it's okay, I mean it can get to you, but it pays pretty well, and you can't ask for better hours and it does have insurance, although I have been thinking I ought to start thinking about looking around, I mean I don't want to being doing it for the rest of my life.

The land of counterpane built by Weston
inhabited solely by pigs rooting for truffles
in the loamy oregano spaces I find you
where you break up and fold.

Those? It's embarrassing, I was eighteen and I was really depressed, and doing all sorts of crazy things, driving my car too fast calling up the school pretending I was my mom to tell them I was sick and they put me in a mental hospital I hated it so much when I got out I slashed my wrists.

The ritual of numbers and sock hunting
you cold with escalating intimacy, hot
in the climate of license infected with possibility
inoculated with disappointments.

Okay, well, sure, let me walk you to the door, I like for the neighbors to see a man coming out of my door, I don't want them to think there's only women here, my sister's boyfriend is always over, that's something, but these aren't safe times. Good bye.

The telephone is ringing the darkness of the hall
I don't see the retreat but hear the engine start up and
warm, I linger in the two sounds
as you drive into the fog.