Waiting for My Breath to Die

 
On the couch or on the bed, you say.
Soft black curls like Satan's cherub.
The beauty that springs
from between your legs.
 
I need any contact.  
You pull my red hair out from the roots,
I hear it detach,
it is pleasure.
 
Moving inside what I use  
to take in air, pushing my head down  
as long as possible. I drown  
in the verdant sea of your cologne,
 
Poseidon thrusts his wet-scaly arm  
down my windpipe. My head is
a heavy shell sinking to the ocean floor
as things in and out of me go purple.
 
But I am a fish that makes a racket,
I toss and flail, arms fluttering like wings.
Mucus and blood a music that stains  
the gold band of your ring.
 
You give me a dollar in quarters  
for the bus four streets down.  
Tonight I wait for you to call.
Hoping for anything from you.