For Craig Arnold
I had never tasted Sherry until that night.
Strong and smooth—like every word he said.
Something about the movement of his fingers,
how they danced as he spoke, how they felt across the
swell of my back.
My eyes didn’t seem to focus at any moment;
plastic cup numbed in my hand. Then,
he lay there—horizontally—too long
for a sideways bed, as I took in the reading of the
most beautiful poem I have ever heard
from a poets mouth, in my ear:
“…because at the play, backstage, on opening night
she conjured out of the vast yards of her dress
an avocado and a razorblade,
slit the one open with the other, flayed
the pebbled skin, and offered me a slice”….–
And for a brief moment, I thought I was in love.
Later when he kissed me with the same mouth
from which those insanely amazing words danced from,
is another poem entirely.