Sir Walter Raleigh,
dimity and damask,
rococo and arabesque,
batiste and challis,
handkerchief and crumpled glove.
Love, I don’t know
how you suddenly grew lovely,
why I never noticed last
summer, nor the summers before
when the hard sun died
anything before it bloomed.
My seasonal lovers have come and gone.
And you were there, friend,
cold as porcelain,
mute as the milk moon.
I was afraid of you then.
Did you notice
I never hovered
in the cab of your pickup
when we good-byed,
when the pecan trees
rustled and shushed.
patient on my porch.
Nipped kiss. Screen door
slammed. I danced
barefoot with the cat
when I was alone.
Glass of wine,
candle, my brush
across my hair a hundred
times. And now,
here you are.
Little asterisk, little
How-I-wonder-what-you-are
upon my linen.
Incest! Error!
My head split in two—
half of me preening its feathers
the other watching from
a stool and sneering—
Fool!