I lie in bed

blinking 
I’ve been thinking

feel feeble
inside
these sheets
here 

revel in fickleness 

this time
I will
tell it 
like this:

I never believed his
limericks

limp
prickling
they never tricked me,

never mind their bright themes,
wicked, wise 

(I’ve been thinking I might 
live well with less)

besides, his intelligence
is reckless
wild,

I prefer
simple verbs
edgier texts repel
me, send shivers

in essence, I resist
his messiness

I detect him hiding
inside excess
defensive,

illicit,
indifferent

 

still I lie in bed
beside his
thick chest

nipples erect
restless, desiring
pestering

I knew his tenses
were skewed,
devilish

i.e.
I never risked
like he did

I determined his bite
in meters
withdrew from his
instinctive tendencies

 

still I felt invited in,
pretending things were
better, tender

when he served me
I respected him

which rendered his fervent wiles
tempting

relentless
ever diligent
he selected
reveries he identified
I’d like

I feigned interest in
his clever pieces,
his sweet whispered exegesis

 

yes, I
listened, I liked
seeing him
bend his fierce
height
in deference

secretly I’d envied
his prize-
winning verses
terse experiments
with cliché,
irreverent, blessed

I lived inside
them
clinging
discrete,

fell in line-within-line
selfless,
mesmerized

in between them
I shed
pretext

emerging free
relieved
eyes wide
feet perfect

 

I lie in bed
register new
feelings,
mischief, glee

delight in seeing his fingers
print, inscribing the
silence with vice

will relish interpreting
the letters
he writes
pert reminders
linking inspiring
views
with deficient
existence

they’ll fling me
bring me

keen meetings
with shrewd men, rivers, children in
Tibet, Denver, Sweden

wherever his limitless
mind enters,
invents

delivers

 

I lie in bed
refreshed,

I’ve been thinking
thrilled
inside these sheets here

his
thick chest
fingers
resplendent

with regret

(try living well
with less)

Next time I will
tell it like this

I never did like his

limericks…

 

 

 

 

 

About the Poet

 

Ahava Shira—alive, i am a poet & it’s my not-so-subtle, necessary fixation with language that calls me to be valued here, investigating the beautiful complexity of a half-life of writing. i am a performer, clown, Respectful Relationships educator, and the author of Womb: Weaving of My Being (butterfly press, 1998). i wonder at/with words and the ecological connections that words open up.