Your sexual preference is the strand
of spider web across my eyes
this morning,
Annoyed, I swipe
it away; it is perfect and persistent;
it laughs at my effort, yet
doesn’t let go.
My wanting you is for what –
I don’t know – as if new clothes
would make me
Somehow happier – more complete –
as if a male outfit
could dress me less like a pauper,
More like the butch empress who shuns the
requisite lesbian clothes
Our time was not for naught but smacks
of chocolate mints after dinner,
you want one so badly
especially after ordering only a salad –
In the parking lot
a well meaning couple,
(whichever one you choose)
says,
There’s a little something on
your face,
And I know it so well, brown and green –
the warmth of it: smears just like our body parts.
I still pray for us, reunited, but your taste is
not on my lips,
not on my lips,
not on my lips –
anymore.
Follow Elisabeth Horan on Twitter @ehoranpoet