side and belly
He is wilty muscle sack and sharp bones fitting my gnarly paws. I am soft cellulite and green eyes of middle-age memory. We are side and belly trading dreams and fantasies of able-bodied former and not real selves: high-heel booted dancers making love from black rooftops and in naked dim doorways.
He is Irish tones and Catholic sorrows needing my tough willow. I am faceless hands in the endless night of child crying save me save me. He is Yeats aloud through hash to my tamborine jangle. Contradictions in the starry night of wars within and being not quite whole together and whole. Together in sighs we say yes broken and fire and yes singing.