you sitting on the edge of the bed
polishing your shoes with boot black,
and I loved you then, so wise from the shower,
and I loved you many other times
and I have been, for months,
trying to drown it,
to push it under,
to keep its great red tongue
under like a fish
-anne sexton*

the smell of you, my long island ice tea breath, a single exchange
reaching over several feet
of club space.
i haven't seen you in years,
but in front of me is a young man who dove too deep in a concrete pit,
who needed too much,
who drove his mother to depression again,
and now he's smoking with his brothers
because his own isn't there,
because his own flesh ****** up and
has a baby now.  i wait for the red to reach my face,
the embarrassment of the reminder that i loved someone who wasn't ready
for my body out of the shower, or my  2 am binge,
or my breath