Pillow Talkc

I am an odalisque in pieces.
Frisson should happen every single time,

but doesn't. Instead it stammers
like a bike light.

You promise postcards
from the Atlantic Mirror,

then leave scarabs under
your thumbprint.

My gypsy window:
your fissure.

Listen, I got here
the same way you did,

taking heart in a stranger
who plucked music from my pudendum,

so make something true
before you go. Or don't.

I'll find it.
My kind always does.




From Odalisque in Pieces (Arizona University Press, 2009). Reprinted with the permission of the author. All Rights Reserved.