oops
baby,
i have become so massively,
capital-p Problematic since the first time we slept together
since you and your shirt unbuttoned and
your suspenders lost in the dark
swaying around your waist
since the green carpet
and the dress snafu
and the pushgrindbite
since i went home and laid down and felt poem after poem for you,
sent one (on a purely intellectual level,
after i took out the line about how i might love you
after two weeks, of laughing out loud in the library
of me drunkenly telling my friends how much i missed you
of a necklace hooked with a kiss at the top of my spine)
—
my poems lately have been as Articulate and Interesting
as i can manage because you are these things
that i want (to be)
but in truth i think i am the same unstrung phrases i sang
in sophomore year; only girls make me angry and political
you melt me in your piano-man fingers
(bad feminist me)
like i have never been alive until i felt you inside me
like i want to dance with you at our wedding, a waltz and a rumba
like i want your mouth on my belly, meeting a baby’s fist
your silver brow and liver spots
your Queen in the shower
your hair in my mouth
on Sunday morning, like unspun jazz,
like this is what love is supposed to be about and i was so lucky as to
find it underfoot
