Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Coryphée Lover

I used to like to watch her walk.
It was more like gliding, or floating, than walking,
this dancing woman of mine.
We loved each other, in our own little ways, but we weren’t in Love.
Yet I sat on her couch, with the smell of Narnia’s spring in her room,
and her tight black jeans gripping her ballerina thighs
(she said she loved me in tank tops)
and I watched the beauty of her walk,
her heart, her mind.

I told my friend this, two years or so after said lover moved down south,
and my friend said she
would immediately fall for any
man who spoke that way about her.

Some months went by again, and another woman,
laying in bed, her arms around me,
(we were each other’s ponchos for two weeks around Christmas)
told me to be grateful.
“Grateful for the drug dens
you lost yourself in,” she said,
“and the reality that you no longer make your bed in hell.”

I sent my note of gratitude to my Coryphée Lover and
she sent one back and I smiled.
I never returned her message, for I loved her, this queer woman,
but was not in Love.