The Bosoming

Mar 10, 2008 - 12:19 PM PST

You, Sir, mount'd and plow'd and begg'd. You dug your spurred heals into the ripped and gold egyptian cotton. You seduced the secret night, Sir, scraped her from your spear, trapped her in a jar, Sir, and kept her secrets ready in the large side pocket of your pleated jodhpurs. You spread your lips like a gentleman, Sir, as you & I tear each other apart in your desperate search -- what is mine? You say your grass is green, green, and sometimes blue, Sir, and you repeat, sometimes blue. Yet mine, Sir, is gray -- always gray as the shadow under the curve of your gallant jaw, Sir, yous tender jaw, oh so tender. Your teeth, jagged and steady as you tap, Sir, and tap again at night's relentless jar. She refuses your requests, Sir, your tricks. No, Sir, no, let it go, let it go. You are too steady, Sir. Sir noble-named and Sir unterrified, Sir unlimited, and Sir -- do you live for me, Sir? You roll your blues at me, Sir, with lips wet from the gold harmonica as you blow melodies, not words, but they hurt just the same. You, Sir, you know nought what you do. Sew me into my stained bodice, Sir, as you worry to secure the eye and hook; your fingers, Sir, lost in my maze of strings. Keep me, Sir, as I look ahead to our foggy nights with my quilts damp from dawn's silver dew. Do you hear my sin and moan? Cry, Sir, cry as I shine your shoes.