Not Another Fucking Poem

You, naked, barely
on the edge of the bed, blinking, white
as a candle, alight on a plate, and breasts,
together, cheerful as dolphins.
The way we played, you,
legs to opened ground
and me, a compass with only one
direction — but wrestling, braiding fingers,
me, pushing you down,
you, pushing back to come back
laughing, allowing us to
forget all that.

Mariela

I never called you, did I,
before you died. Maybe,
I knew too much, already.
We made love
in that TV-lit motel room,
in Vermillion Bay,
left my glasses by the bedside
digital clock, afterwards,
as you and I lay together,
I saw through a part
of you: a few strands
of your hair, the blurry channel
I left on mute, cracked,
but too bright, too.

Not Another Fucking Poem

You, naked, barely on the edge
of the bed, blinking, white as a candle,
alight on a plate, and your breasts,
together, cheerful as dolphins.
The way we played, you,
wet between your legs,
and me, hard between mine —
but wrestling, braiding fingers,
me pushing you down,
you, pushing back, see-sawing
as you laughed,
allowing us to forget all that.