04-21-2016, 12:20 AM
Predictable Patterns
On Tuesdays, you wear red when he comes
to your home. He presses you against
the semi-opened blinds. Your neck tilts
back, mouth open.
On Wednesdays, you wear black
for me, intricate lace up your legs
that I trace with fingertips on the fog
of my window.
On Thursdays, you shut the blinds.
It is a death, not knowing.
I place my palms against
the frame of your window.
The house breathes beneath me.
On Fridays, you return
wearing nothing. It is a sour taste
to see, and then see everything.
What is left?
On Saturdays, he takes you
for a long weekend,
as if he owns you. What I do
is a sort of theft, I imagine.
On Tuesdays, you wear red when he comes
to your home. He presses you against
the semi-opened blinds. Your neck tilts
back, mouth open.
On Wednesdays, you wear black
for me, intricate lace up your legs
that I trace with fingertips on the fog
of my window.
On Thursdays, you shut the blinds.
It is a death, not knowing.
I place my palms against
the frame of your window.
The house breathes beneath me.
On Fridays, you return
wearing nothing. It is a sour taste
to see, and then see everything.
What is left?
On Saturdays, he takes you
for a long weekend,
as if he owns you. What I do
is a sort of theft, I imagine.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson