Barbara

for Barbara Michaels

She knows he's leaving tonight,
the last time
she'll be softly fucked.

It's all scalloped hemlines
and girls named Amaranth.
She buys a shell-pink corset
of watered silk,
two bottles each
of Shalimar and grenadine.

She begins making plans,
locates the finest oolong.
Stays awake baking cream puffs
and madeleines.

She slathers her legs
in vanilla and butter.
Draws plans for a ha-ha.
A knot garden. A pergola.
Searches the mossy bottom
of the fountain for ghosts,
the blackness shimmering.
Fashions a sundial
out of the sad arc of her arms
and trims the dead heads
off bourbon roses. Takes
a sledgehammer to the walls
and carves out a priest's hole.
Buries herself in tight.

At six a.m., tongue flicking
hot over dry lips, tasting
of sweat and sherry.
Powdered sugar.

A hand delving between
her thighs, tasting / learning
the shape of the emptiness
there.