To You Who Might Be My Next Lover

…and where did you meet her? On
Scottish streets? In a chic bakery?
Did she La-Dee-Dah in silk
stockings?

Her name is Wife. I know about her.
Past lovers speak of
her
treachery. They brought her in on
ropes twisted from her
French Scarves, tied her to their clumsy
belts.

They never replaced their belts…
or their shoes! Walking on old, worn soles.
Treading cautiously, as one step might
shred a shoe at its seams.

Each lover gave me permission to
remove their dirty
belt at night, doors holding off
Wives for the night.

Morning brought them back with vengeance. As belts
climbed
back on vacillating hips, claiming
ownership,

an old Wife would
strike! Agitated clouds would roll in, graying their eyes.
A former storm taking them back
to when they met her.

And she will take you away, too. Back to
dirty streets of Scotland,
to poison you
with silk stockings.

Expose

Two twisted ropes
young
ripened
hair

jumping
twirling
giggling
squealing
lengthy brown
cuts

length covers
the truth
scented as innocence
in white cloaked
purity

misleading
boys
girls
men
women

thick strands would lay
gentle across
hairy chests

lace
bare breasts
camouflaging promiscuity
as tender
bloody
raw pieces of
a heart

one-by-one
single strands fell
attaching faithfully
to each different
fingerprint that combed
intimacy down
down
down
to the bottom of every
tiny
split
end

desertion
so subtle
so discreet

went unnoticed
but
thinned
dissipated
to
nearly stark
abolishing
fabricated scents
publishing
scandalous stories
wrapped around
fingertips
lovers
who loved
innocent hair.