12gauge.com 2002

James and Me Three

James, I said, in a voice crackpot
less peach harlot,
your wife, still something to hijack

and I am jealous knowing your fingers
are on the loose, jealous of the musk
behind her ear where in a photograph
a gardenia once blushed.

She is milk curdled in my sleep,
a sour thing to keep me awake,
a fancy on the tip of my tongue
whose name I'll never own.

She's a heavy grit sandpaper, three
years rubbing raw my edge,
the one I dangled on index, modeled
between my legs, a cheap vanity flair.

James, I am vinegar, a baby's wet smell
and her head still turns zinfandel.

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