Tease

You
never write
any of your
poems
about me
she said.
We lived together
in this basement
apartment
& the sunlight
we were allowed
came through a
slanted dirty window
near the ceiling.
The window
let out
on a dog pen
where a bitch
in heat
ran around
in frantic
circles
her muscles
knotted
with fuck
hormones.
You
write about
death
& suffering
& blackness
she said
but never about me.
She
was wearing
the dress I'd bought
her for Christmas
the male fantasy
every-woman-as-whore
dress & as I sat there
thinking about
the next poem
she unbuttoned it
slowly
carefully
taking her time
for once
showing me
cleavage
navel
& the
outer limits
of her dark
blond pubes
& said
write a poem
about this
& let her
index finger
straggle
down there
turning sideways
in that dirty yellow
light which
cut across
her soft
afternoon tits
like a tarnished
butter knife
& smiled
the wicked task-
mistress smile
I'd taught
her.
Each strand
of her combed
out straight hair
danced as if
on fire
& I threw
my pencil
down on the
floor
watched it
roll under
our bed.
Then
I went
over there
fell to my knees
& buried my face
in the
perfume & cigarette
smell of her
dress
breathed
it all in
& she said
more to
herself
than to me
I'm the
best
poem
you've
ever
written.

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