Last night I was nervous; I met you at our favorite bar-- the one with the foreign beers and secret booths for bullshitting.
Last night the local jazz bands were unfamiliar; The Palmetto Bug Stompers? Johnson & Honey Bannister?
Last night you were a suave fuck, with your motorcycle boots and cheap leather jacket.
Last night Big Blue took us back to your place-- your place.
Last night you fed me sweet mead-- my "potent honey tongue slipping too many words" while 150 grams spin, swallowing the background of "honeymoon."
Last night I was happy to see you did not own a television, or believe in Ann Taylor.
Last night you painted me ebony, blood stumbling through my veins like the grime in tap water.
Last night it was the way your hair shimmered under the Chinese lantern light, planted where fire should grow.
Last night the floors were cold, my feet clung frozen to your legs.
Last night you couldn't hear it, but Yoni disputed through my ears-- "You act like a slut but you're really a freezer."
Matt, did you want the breast beneath my Fletcher blouse? Did you want me bare? Didn't you want to eat me alive?
Last night I prayed for morning, I prayed for the half moon to run across the city.
But last night, every night-- a 5:45 alarm goes off and the Saint Lazarus flame dies young; you steam your pasta and teach geography.
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