Metaphor for a Friday Night

Your hands are clever,

I get that now, it’s not

just the sexy guitar riffs

or knowing when to rev those

highway near-death takeovers.

I got it when

your tequila persuaded hands stumbled

in the dark

all over my body

but somehow avoided to acknowledge

my sex, my name.

I get it now, your hands,

their resourcefulness and their ironic desire

for hairless body heat in the tropical east,

and maybe even

the metaphor of intertwining fingers—

That’s all I was, a metaphor

for sexual blindness, or ignorance;

a metaphor for

(your words)

a man’s Friday night.

Three Poems for the Nightstand

Straight/Lines

You were straight
lines parallel to my entity

and parallelism is meant to be

two beings on paths moving side

by side, having the same distance

continuously between them,
unchanging

as fact,

or so I thought even when

our bodies rested
on your bed, the patterns

of the mattress laid out a grid

marking our space respective

before

your penis introduced a perpendicular

that’s made maths,

or sexuality,

no longer important.

*

Sex Sounds

Was there a point to try

and harmonize the rhythm up and down

of my head on your cock;

saliva, tongue, on skin— unbearable sex sounds

with the moans that escaped

your lips, so dark I could barely see

my name over and over

reflexively whispered,

your eyes closed,

mine opened.

For just a moment

I thought I heard assonance

in our separate sex noises playing

at different time signatures,

and harmony

in resolutions that never came.

*

The Mourning After

I woke up 

to the sweetness of

courtesy Listerine on your breath,

your arms still holding my head

in the coarse black hairs of your chest

where I tried to search for vacancy

in the dark of this graveyard

to mourn the half bottle of whiskey

that we didn’t get to drink last night,

still standing on your nightstand.