Reading love letters addressed to me.
The Medicinal Cotton Clouds Come Down to Cover Them
Mary Jo Bang
To smother their smallness
in felt. Unsatisfied folds, filmic
emotion — remote, pale and impalpable.
Each with their own secret
inflection of want.
There was no debate on this but merely a mood
shift when certain words were mentioned.
Inane nexus of speech, never quite capturing
the what invoked.
She slid her panties down over her hips.
The broidered hue of illusion,
idea drunk in the delicate gloom.
The picture of a hand becoming
a hand. Whose? Yes. Desire reworked stepwise,
a would weep. A was told and lying very still.
Was allowing just so to happen
to her. Neck nape a curve becoming
infinite abyss extended to wish, wish, wish,
and righty-o, a stunning result. Isn’t that nice?
Rosey-o, rosey-o. She woke, took one look:
Oh, it’s you. Yes. I thought I dreamed you.
Siren girls sang somewhere. Nice, she said. Nice.