Otters Sleep Holding Hands
Let us be otters that sleep holding hands.
Roped together,
anchored on a life raft
big enough for two, my honey,
we ride, slip and slide,
cruise nights where dreams walk free
and nightmares skim off day’s grease.
Hearts pound like hooves on pavement,
we depend on the press
of each other’s warm body for comfort
and defense against inconsolable loss.
We sleep tethered holding hands,
unaware when passion turns to poison,
when jealousy tightens its grip to shackles,
and she consents to wear
the chastity belt of possession.
~
Aubade
The first, I want
but without return.
For a dozen years,
we play a frigid bitch game,
he yokes me with inadequacy,
I pull to redeem my sex.
Ophelia without suicide,
I languish.
The second, I revolt.
We hit the bed and do
a quick flash burn
to crescendo and sleep.
Slam bam thank you, M’am,
he tells me
and it’s enough,
I am woman.
The third, I knock on his door.
Come in, he says.
He is my aubade.
Until I turn thirty,
I think aubades
are fairytale lace
in romance novels.
Not so.
Stars sprinkle through the window,
a new moon night
wraps us in velvet.
Content to light the darkness,
over and over we wake,
caresses follow blazes
then we doze
only to awaken in need.
We rise and fall
hours slipping
until the sky passes
to muffled gray
of cheesecloth and bird song.
From overhead, sharp honks echo,
a pair of geese head eastward
into the rising sun.
Dawn sings with birds and frogs,
crickets rub their wings in joy.
We part in white morning sun
mated for life.
Date Published: June 11, 2016