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old poem

March 25, 2013

Yesterday, while the afternoon
sank into gray,
my mother and I
watched the melancholy Sylvia.

They’ve just made love on the couch
and now they’re lying there-
lazy and golden flesh in the lamplight
and I think of his thighs,
how the curve of his hip,
his leg,
his bone,
is incredibly attractive-

and my mother abruptly says-
“You shouldn’t be watching this.”

and I say “shhsh…”

I don’t say that I have seen…
much more of him.
I don’t mention that, while dressed
in suits and ties,
white shirts with stiff collars,
he is elegant, but
he looks beautiful in nothing.

I don’t say that my imagination is
talented enough, to lend thoughts
upon these matters
though the internet itself, has already been
most kind.

I don’t say any of this.

I merely say ‘Shhsh…” and other things.

But no words that carry the thought
of that lovely, gold dark flesh laid bare,
the curve of his hips and thighs.
These words I do not speak.


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