Tricoteuse July 18, 2012

I make the call

I do not want to make,

to him not her,

thinking I need to bite the bullet

get the worst out of the way,

confess it all before

someone confesses for me

Already guilty

Before I’m even charged

the bitter pill I need to swallow,

as he picks up on his end

kids’ voices

maybe his wife’s,

his tone changing

when I tell him,

the implications overwhelming,

telling me to meet with him

on Tuesday

and I’m not relieved at the delay,

Tuesday? Why Tuesday,

And I picture her face

Across the table from mine,

Her accusing stare,

I’m in the midst of slow

Motion suicide

The sharp edge of the guillotine

Inches from my neck,

And she a cackling tricoteuse

Weaving my fate

email to Al Sullivan

If we rub hard enough July 2012

 

If we rub against each other

 long and hard enough,

 we might ignite –

no boy scout ritual this,

 no sticks to set aflame.,

 we are the sticks we need to spark,

 the more we rub,

the more intense the heat

Can we stand it,

 the fire?

Do we do this to create magic

 the way old witches do,

 to make something from nothing,

to create joy out of the steady rub of flesh,

 my skin against your skin,

 my lips against your lips,

my hips against yours,

ever pressing until it all explodes?

If we rub hard enough

 and long enough,

 can we make fire?

Do we risk it?

 Do we even understand

what it means when we try,

 rubbing as hard as we can

until we wear each other out?

email to Al Sullivan