IN FOUR WINDS THE LADIES ARGUE ABOUT THEIR FUTURE WITH THE POET
The first one says, I was writing
love letters in a burning building
barefoot, in a red nightgown
something one doesn’t wear to sleep in
per se, I was thinking of St. Francis
& his wine, red too, like the beaks
of crows dipped in road kill.
The other, quoting from scripture, said
I will see him across traffic, waiting
for me. We had met but I didn’t know him
& when I was crying with desire, my fingers
not enough, he will show me his cock, not
as a sword, but gently, & he will bathe me
& bring me coffee in bed, kiss my scars
& come to Church, his hands, oh his hands
will be like birds, like dragonflies along
my spine my thighs, whispering pines
& promises on boulders on the lake.
The younger one said, No, as for me
I will meet him in the city, not anyone
I should be with, no – the other poets more
my age, no one would approve. I will
imagine mornings in his motel, my clothes
on the floor, my mother flying overhead.