Rosalie has candles in a circle around her bed.
One night as I lay on a couch in a tequila stupor,
she takes off my shoes and trousers,
pulls a cover over me and snips two inches of hair
from my head. She places the hair in a glass
near the candles. I don’t know why.
I don’t know why she searches for me.
I don’t know how she finds me in the bars.
I don’t know why she ridicules the women I like
and uses me to meet men.
Rosalie usually finds solace in a glass
of whiskey. In my face she finds the same thing.
I don’t know why. We argue too much.
We feign caring and then hurt each other
with indifference. With others we are tough
and mean. But in the quiet of darkness
we hold each other and caress like kittens.
She says she can only make love to someone
when she is drunk. She says she loves men
but has lesbian friends.
She loves being looked at. I want to hide.
She hates struggle. That’s all I do.
She has Gods to pray to. I just curse.
I don’t know what she sees in my face,
or hands for that matter. I only know
she needs me like whiskey.