Jilting her husband, the prison psychologist fell in love with an inmate. “You would, too,” she explained later, “if you took the time to study his eyes.” In them was the trust of his victims.
Again, the Wal-marts and K-marts fail me;
their rows of Hallmarks stiff and silly,
swirling with clichéd roses,
finger-printed by the mass of malogens you scorn.
No bother. I’ll sing a song of Bloomsburg
for you, my sexy soul-mate, a decade of days
replayed in this short stanza,
a celebration of the every-moment,
with you my miracle life-changer.
Naked in the naked way day wakes
to morning, stretched up, muscling
from heel to head-shine the backs of everything:
hand grasp of calves and balls and rear;
flesh loose, tight, turning
not into face or front never!
but toward the backdrop of your back,
those hallway lights highlighting each exit
as "now," "before," or "will be"
without worry or forethought.
His old adage: "A cat through the branches
will do it. That's when they're pruned."
He says it serious, head tilted, so I'm
there, stretched between limbs,
the county firemen
whining their trucks toward the fields,
pretending to save.