POEM ABOUT HIM

yes, this is the poem, i tell him,
which is really about you, about
your not believing that you have a poem
in you in spite of being so pretty, a real
simple man asleep within himself,
so fresh and athletic - always
in need of a female to fuck (or vice versa),
and to impress by soothing away
her lines in an instant or less
as the lights fade and the distances condense
closing protectively like pleasant memories
knitted together by interlocking lies;
 

"out of this bed do not desire to go,"
i command him, knowing that
this poem is really about me, about
my believing that i no longer have a poem
within myself, so fat i am and in need of his
adoration, so lined that i want him kneeling,
stretching me like pastry over the dining table
in expectation of the poppy seed and raisin filling,
so scared at three in the morning
when a panic attack floods my brain using
the cochlear nerve as a secret entrance,
but this is still a poem about you, i insist,
about your believing in nursing the sunrise (you)
above a fortress with no windows (me) -
 

you talk too much, he says smiling,
so pretty, so athletic, so in need of a fuck
here and there, there and here 


Sonja Besford