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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