Before you became a cloud, you were an ocean, roiled and
murmuring like a mouth. You were the shadow of a cloud
crossing over a field of tulips. You were the tears of a
Wachale! She's a black lace bra
kind of woman, the kind who serves
up suicide with every kamikaze
December 24th and we're through again.
This time for good I know because I didn't
Mornings I still
reach for you before
opening my eyes.
Because I miss
you I run my hand
along the flat of my thigh
You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
They say I'm a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that's what a woman was.
That was enough
for me to forgive you.
To spirit a tiger
I can't imagine that goofy white woman
with you. Her pink skin on your dark.
Your tongue on hers. I can't