a woman then/ long dark hair/ small clean
teeth match her carnivorous bent/ keys on the
black piano/ ivory handle on the letter
opener/ lying on the desk that is/ heavier
than it weighs/ making her slight with
oppressive length and width/ polished wood
stained dark as blood

a man then/ quick as a knife/ sweet vision of
christ in a suit/ stuck in a bootlicking
scrum of well-dressed fellows who all look
the same/ so he tells them apart by their
ties// when no one will speak past their
fear/ his legs straighten, mouth opens/ veins
in his forehead pulsing/ deny the shine on
his shoes/ crisp press of his shirt/ words
etched into glass as truth/ because the rage
is ablaze

our woman then/ chilled by stone walls/ her
tiny feet lay wet kisses on tile// she lights
a fire/ with a match the length of a wand/
dab of magic sulfur giving birth to larger
flames/ sits in a chair too far away// there
is warmth and comfort in the distance

our man then/ getting ripped/ caught in a
chemical fly/ burning and tight/ any life
outside the gym forgotten/ ready to start any
fight// the juice from a needle will boil his
blood/ turn tables in his mind/ set him on
the edge of action/ hair trigger

our woman then/ bored with her fears/ wearing
her boots and swinging from curtains/
ordering staff to wear blackface/ sing old
Jolson show tunes/ while she repaints a
painting by someone she hates/ with tar/ and
a trowel/ an image of her X outgrows its
frame/ black feet bleed into the rug

our man then/ starts off the weekend looking
for heat/ dragging it slow down the track/
waiting for something to spill in the street/
luring in looks from those who would strip
down his car/ cut out his tongue for some
change// the girl on the street/ is a leopard
spandex body grinder/ wearing the perfume of
X// he slips her a bill to wear another
fragrance/ the rank fumes filling up his
car// he is clean like jesus and just as
deadly/ much too clean to belong/ until the
sticky prints of whores when he stops at the
red light/ wet heat leaning on the door

woman and man in the garden, Sunday/ two Jags
cooling on the grass/ and out of the trunks
come mud crusty gloves/ and a trowel that
shines in the sun// it takes a garden/ to
bring them down to their knees/ where long
white fingers are animal roots/ hunting
blind/ they learn again/ the first use of
fingers was to feel/ for the sugary flesh of
a carrot maybe/ or the soft torn skin of a
spud// young weeds pulled like hair from a
dark scalp/ wither and brown in the sun//
they clean the garden but the basket is
empty/ last years corn silk/ stuck in the
slats// on all fours they hunt with their
faces/ soft soil kind to their tender white
skin// prey lies hidden by cucumber leaves/
scratching their cheeks as they pass// green
coil pea vines tickle their ears/ as they
chew on green finger peas// drawn by the
reddening bags of plant blood/ their teeth
scrape a skin which will not tear// they are
teased by thoughts of many chambered hearts/
small yellow seeds in their hair

when blue turns to black/ when harvest turns
to orgy/ when warm sun turns to hard rain
from the east