Postcards from BsAs

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With One-Third All My Love

I have half a mind
to wire him 2k for transportation:
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Telegraph: Need you stop
Now stop
Wear your black cardigan stop
Bring the Raspberry Bite
lipstick and matches I left
in its pocket the night we stop

Send to his mother's address,
a postcard, the one with six shots
of six pairs of Argentinean breasts:

For my darling,

Boobs.

With one-third
all the love
available beneath
my own double As.

Between the cardstock and the glossy
photo, slip a map of the city
with a purple-inked path from the airport
to the foot of the bronzed Latina Cinderella
just outside the cemetery: a path dotted
with as many sonnets as it took me to realize
what he'd really wanted; to decide
I wanted that too; to find the vocabulary
and the sense to tell him how I'd like
to be his sophomore year steady: fifteen,
learning to fumble my hands
into the front pockets of his Levis
as we wait for the traffic lights
to let us go; how to stretch my spine strong,
curve my neck soft so he could separate
muscle from muscle with his tongue,
harboring his face and his fingers
in the hair I kept long for no other purpose,
as my own eyes look out over Avenida
del Liberator traffic, begging passersby
for a challenge: to hurt my pride:
to tell my limbs not even Buenos Aires
could seduce my reticence;
planish me into a woman who stands
in the middle of everywhere unwinding,
unthreading the seams of a skirt
to make room for her thigh:
for when the nerves hear the bandonéon
and want to cradle her man's ribcage
without waiting for the notes to fade,
the audience to go away;
without waiting for their own feet
to get them to a back alley or the back
of a car or back into the apartment; without
waiting for another way to say she needs.







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Expect a Series of BsAs pieces....

No title. A fetal draft.
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I think we are supposed to do something
romantic here: at the corner of a 1906
Rue de Fleurus and a 1965 East 47th

Street, beneath a coin-operated moon
made full with nine dimes and a nickel,
the street-orchestra playing a tune only

the paint-can drummer hears as his high
school sweetheart's favorite lullaby that
floats through a midnight mist of a blend

from Mendoza, I think, yes: quick! Take
off your clothes! The moon won't mind.
Quick! Open your mouth I will crawl

inside: skinny dip: swim in, swim out
of the gaps between your bicuspids,
wrap myself in the arugula left over from

the omelets we ate in the bed dampened
by the rainstorm the weathermen didn't
forecast on channel 9, 14 or 37, which

seemed reason enough to open the windows
and push the mattress onto the balcony.
Because that is what we are supposed to do.

Yes, isn't that what we are supposed to do?
Will you still love me if I become beautiful?
Find rhythm, my footing with the orchestra?

I wrap myself strategically in the arugula,
slip seductively from the corner of your lips,
glistening a slightly ashamed Eve for the

knowledge I swabbed from inside your
mouth: for the thought that perhaps the Book
of Chemistry, Spells, Science and Kama Sutra:

A Practical and Proven Guide for Self-Helping
to Find Self-Love, Self-Healing, Self-Improving
from the Hair on Your Toes to the Pimple

on the Back of Your Neck in Order to Attract
Your Perfect Mate and Keep Him Without
Holding Him Down Except for the Nights

When He Wants to be Tied, was written
for some ones other than ourselves; some
ones who know only one good variation on

the theme of things to do with two mouths.
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