Aubade
with apologies to van Gogh
Dawn slashes with agony of flamingo clouds
drowning slowly in mandarine dye.
In a fireburst
the sun smashes down the windowpane.
He sleeps, lightly tanning in the heat,
His ringed finger politely hiding beneath the sheets.
You kneel beside him, naked as Aphrodite
floating ashore in a giant clam.
Your four-day's love scissors along
dotted line sending propriety to the dogs.
And you catch your left ear deftly in your palm:
token pledge of unrequited fidelity.
You tuck your rubicund ache under his pillow
and leave, hoping he will understand.
After Death
You scream for a match -
but not to light a Marlboro
(don't you remember that last vision of the granite floor?)
You grope about stripped of limbs
memory cries in flashes
like ominous words devoid of consonants
You shout for God and Satan
to put you to your place -
as they always did before
But there's no one there
Only a vast obsidian vortex of Yourself
released and pulsing to be born
Good Old Days
Whatever happened to the good old days
when you fell in love, got married,
had kids and grew old together?
Every night then
since I rolled up the required white
he's homed on the couch
faking sex with the tv remote;
for company I got used
to taking private sips from
bottles I've stashed under the bed.
Yesterday he came home -
wanted a divorce.
It seems he's found another man.
Said he'll leave me the kids,
the house, alimony -
everything I could ever want....
Why can't it be like the good old days
when the old man just beat you up
and in the morning
you both live to forgive and forget?
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