What my arms learned in love
they practice for approval along his muscled torso.
Strong lines of his neck
tense and constrict
with every light lick, each wicked (with-teeth) nip,
bestowed with vanilla flavored lips.
A taste I applied not to please but to
play; for his fancy and pleasure,
his capricious favor and my self esteem’s measure …
bluffing Fate for a better hand to be dealt.
Your lessons are not forgot,
but are of little use to a woman grown
brittle with wasted time and sold at hideous price,
frozen dry with self-told lies of sheeted ice,
to keep from melting down in hopeless regret ...
No, Mother, your lessons I did not forget.
On other nights, there are other legs
stroked and touched,
other waists straddled and shoulders clutched;
no love lost here where,
were I righteous, it would be nothing to resist ...
where love was never found to be missed.
My hands claw,
fingers drawing inward to become a fist
as my heart fills and twists,
as strange perspective penetrates …
strange how surprisingly it satiates.
You taught me well; I have not forgot
all your good teachings and admonitions.
But you believe and I grow skeptic.
You cry, "faith!" to heal me from my lusty desires;
I stay septic.
How wrong you were in teaching
happiness to be a virtue,
that to whom all good things come
are to those who all good things do.
Oh Mother, if all you had said was true
then the cold comforts of long-lost love
would have seen me through,
strengthened me and made me tough …
the memory of such love would have been enough.
Enough to unify my splintered soul
and this strange perception would not fulfill,
would not be close to complete ...
would not calm the bitter permafrost
that goodness, cloaked in worth,
could not defeat.
forgive me my present low caliber,
my scandal and sin -
forgive the illicit joys
of knowing the feel of sex-made,
I've learned your lessons and remember them well
but the red light world has gone gray
with the shades of possibility and uncharted feeling
from my new, post-love point of view.