The last thing I remember about last
Night was dancing on a tarnished table
To Amy Winehouse’s, Back to Black.
Everything was uneven like shattered
Glass, a Picasso painting, a gaping eye staring
Presumably at my preposterous behavior
After drinking five, or was it six Margaritas?
A hand here, a foot there, a decapitated face,
A breast dangling on white canvas like a sort of
Hot air balloon balanced. But I recall a man
Standing in the corner, a dark shadow, a penumbra
Penetrating, a chiseled piece of marble. His voice,
A deep cave of endlessness causing my ovaries
And organs to giggle like two girlfriends sharing
Secrets. I couldn’t figure out if he were a Poet
Or a God, so decided on Poet since words have
Perpetually seduced me, undressed me, brought
Me to my knees with their powerful tongues and
Textures, and anyway, poetry is the only reason
I’m still breathing today.
I think he recited Donne or Byron, not that it mattered
A damn. I was already in love, already unfastening my
Buttons, already wrapping my silk stockings around
His thick neck and licking the syllables dripping from
His delectable jaw.
I don’t know how I ended up on the table, or how I encountered
This beautiful Poet. I don’t know why I was kissing Allegory
And Alliteration off another man’s mouth while my husband
lay curled next to me. I don’t know anything about anything.
But this is what poetry does to me; this is how metaphor alters me.
My apologies, Mr. Poet, Mr. Donne, Mr. Byron, it really has nothing to
Do with you, it’s what you do, it’s the verse, how it immerses me
With sound and sensuality at the same time, it’s the way the sugar
and salt sticks to my lips…
Even now as I write this.