Poetry Archives Bio
November 2, 2018
9:40 AM

To Błażej Krukowski

She came into the mudroom with the face of earth.
My burnished angel, back from a day of spinning pain into gold,
Her face as black as a chimneysweep's.

She reached out her arms towards me, and I came.
And I grabbed her ass playfully.
And I asked her about her day.
And she told me.

And I said, "I have to pack up to go to Vancouver."
And she said, "But what about—"
And she made a gesture about her nethers.

And I took my hand and I led her to the downstairs suite,
As the painters upstairs painted,
And I stuck my tongue in her cunt
Which tasted like napalm and vinegar.

And I licked her moist clit, not easily coaxed,
And I licked her lips with delight.
And I put in a finger.

And I pulled it out slightly, so she'd want it more.
And, sure enough, she said, "Two fingers,"
As if she were ordering a drink.

So I put in two fingers,
And she reached out her arms towards me, and she came.
And she buried my face in her nethers.

Like only I would permit her,
Like she was killing me with her joy.
And I chose love over breathing
For a moment. And I lived.

And then I got up and asked, "Who wants to get fucked?"
And I put myself in her mouth,
Like only she would permit me,
And she sucked.

But I wanted it too much,
And she still wanted to get fucked,
(Not get some rough and ready Dasein in her Weltanschuung).

So I took myself out of her mouth
And I put myself in her cunt.
And it didn't work.
I got soft. And I sulked.

But she kissed me.
And I kissed her back.
And I took the ferry off to Vancouver.
The fifth of sixth time that week.