I still call you Poseidon
That face of hers reminds me of A p h r o d i t e
broken and porcelain like antique store windows;
vermilion from all that glow. She flows like
water (drip. drip. drip) and he sucks her up like wine,
bitter - he doesn't kiss me anymore, but I can still
feel the curl of his tongue when he inhales her (always
exhaling me profoundly in the process) He said - follow
not to lead, I can't follow you where you go! And you?
Baby girl you don't follow anyone! So I guess, I'm the
lucky one. Waking up in the middle of the night screaming
his name like an unabashed litany - I sing about his rib cage
like a lullaby - what it was like to fall asleep entwined.
Entombed. Anchoring. He's tinkering with her over coffee and I
let lose across the page - animal - wild women - visceral - he knows
how hard it is for me to keep quiet, so we say little. If I
write love letters, about how I fell asleep in your clothes once,
dreaming of rings and babies, drunk with the look of R h e i a
in my eyes; would it say anything about how much I miss
the shape of you in my hands. I'll play A r t e m i s if you speak
the words of P o s e i d o n again. I'll leave it all behind. Go back to it.
Stop swinging back and forth, stop asking, stop telling, stop selling
myself. He's talking about the future - it's good to see you, I'll see you
again soon! And A p h r o d i t e with her sweet smile shakes my hand;
writer, she muses, how fascinating. She the mute goddess and I
the screaming gypsy. That face of hers reminds me of none of the reasons
why you were with me.