Director's Cut

It was a six p.m. rosary so we had
no time to eat or fuck around. You
were a director and four years my
junior. It didn't matter you were
married, it was not necessarily your
body I wanted - despite the fact
I would move with your ghost at night,
even on Paxil.

Kindness and arrogance were a dangerous
concoction in you. I ached to lick
the chocolate satin from your voice
and behind your knees as I held you
captive against the water cooler.
Even the minister's repetition of the
twenty-third psalm grew erotic in your
presence - my womb was a shadow in
the valley of death.

But you kept talking with her, laughing
with her, making me want to be the
weekend-old corpse in the box. I
stared out of windows, an outsider,
entranced by mist, the only thing
less ephemeral than my hopes and dreams.

But every day we get fucked by such
heavy imagery: God, crosses, candles,
roses. It leaves a mark and this mark
turns into an empty sucking hole. I
was hoping you might notice someday,
let me wrench you against that dusty
water cooler and take my fill of you.

What do you say?