Poem 3

For this assignment, we were supposed to write about something erotic.  For reasons too numerous to go into here, I’m not really good at that sort of thing.  I was stuck.  So, I went to a friend, explained my problem, and she said, “So why not write about how you can’t write about it?”  Did I mention that this friend is pretty smart?



I tried to write about your lips

overripe like strawberries


But all I could see is lipstick smeared

like cabernet slashes across your face


Your hands drew pictographs

in champagne condensation


Translucent screams for eyes

that look at everything but see nothing


silken ties bound tightly as burlap

–prettiness still chafes —


And the gilded bed is a lie you told yourself

to keep from drowning


The matchstick flared, scratching echoes

in otherwise stillness


The sulfur fucking ozone

thunderclouds behind your eyes


Blind you with lightning flashes in the

rearview mirror as you choke on


Chemicals masquerading as

Sandalwood air freshener


The only connection to actual

wood was the tree shape it assumed.


Your lips are parts of my face

–together we scream


This isn’t hyperbole

This is memoir


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