Two Poems on Love-Play
It was late, & you were
wearing your widow suit,
black of 1870s chic,
loaded with bustle.
I did my best Doc
Holliday—Val’s version, cock-
sure & half-goofy. You
laughed. I laughed. Val
would’ve laughed if he were here
watching me paw at your corset,
pull the strings to tighten it.
Moments like this,
we feel happiest,
field mice exploring
of a dusty closet.
I act out in otherness;
you dress up the same:
not faces of whatever
force invented us,
but what we make
when we’re at play.
Let Me Be Your Dream Dunce
Bright-eyed desperado on a mission for disaster.
Snow-cap climber heading for the peak
of Mt. Oh-no-one-goes-there-ever.
View-taker who topples over the railing of the boat
into choppy waters you barely save me from.
Let me let go of rope, map, & stars—
I’ll walk into danger as a fawn
not fast enough to flee the mountain lion,
tell you philosophies of nothing while we sit
in your dream-Jacuzzi in our clothes.
Let me be clumsy, cuss, rant, & stub my toe
on a jag in the earth,
my forehead once more on the jeweled moon.