“I know the words you long to hear
I know your deepest, secret fear.”
Jim Morrison
The only poems in her life were
the kind that could be traced on
her skin by lovers. The more bedmates
the better: tall ones, dark ones, insane
ones, who create their own houses
of words like Black Spring, crazed riffs
he whispered in her ears as a jazzed up
tone poem, unedited, until it reached
so deep inside her she could only find it
in dreams. Dreams so dark she acted out
on sheets made into a crazy quilt of fabrics
each representing a different, forbidden act:
sleeping with an analyst in transference,
the lost father reclaimed, a bisexual gypsy
guitarist, anyone but the husband who
provided financial support, a man whose
only means of satisfaction was looking
through a peephole into an antechamber,
into a house of seven veils, where his wife
writhed inside, several acts into a psycho
drama that last for years. Three lovers at
one time is never enough.
In Between Hangovers 