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Image for the poem danger is a French kiss

danger is a French kiss


I know some things about her.

how the rain curls her hair;
how she’d walk barefoot in the grass
& it wouldn’t bother her when people stare.

men who dated her just for the action.
marriage like a train wreck.

I half-believe her when she tells me she can write a love poem
without the clichés: pornography for the un-medicated romantic.
she talks to me exactly like that, a mix of poetry & porn.

I figured she wasn’t good for anything, till she kissed me; that,
she was very good for. I’d like her to give me her tough girl back
talk so I could slap her. she tells me do it anyway, go ahead, she
can take it, but it’s not the same.

she lays in her bed, among the leopard spots & the blue cotton,
with her nightie pushed up above her tits, like a slut. like she’s
tempting me. tells me I can slip her panties off real slow, as long
as I nibble her all the way down.

when she tells me she was never beautiful for other men, & she
can only make love in a dark place, I decide there is nothing nice
about her. I learned how to give it to a woman in a whorehouse, &
they didn’t have a pretty name for it.

but I hold her hard, & she clings with her body & her heart.
maybe we were both born broken.


she never looks in the mirror  –  
it would require a formal introduction to her reflection…


(Art: Sanne Sannes)




Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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