Desire
Desire
I expect I’ll want a man like you, again.
There’s a point in the future, I’ll have you
roll up the sleeves of your tight cotton tee,
pinch the muscle there– as if to prove
there’s no dream. Your stomach, the skin
under your chin and your feet on the ground
will be firm and this will verify that I’m worn;
my muscles deflated, my bones sucked
hollow, my skin contracted into creases;
each crease, a long story. I’ll know many dead
people by then, probably my friends;
they’ll have dropped off in the middle
of an email. I won’t get a “Return To Sender -
Recipient Deceased”, I’ll just know. At that age
I’ll presume death. It will be this conviction
that will bring me to you; not the sex, but that too.
You’ll be shiny and new, your pieces guaranteed
to work. You won’t creak when I ask you to walk
towards me and sit. You won’t hurt
in the morning. And when you take off your clothes
you won’t look like death. And
it will all be a little like forgetting.
by Kathryn Koromilas
[Published MiPo Print Sunday 23 March, 2003]
Posted by By: kathryn | 
2006/04/06 | Uncategorized - Poetry | Trackback | Comments [RSS 2.0]
