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Vows |
Awake, sipping my hot coffee, I vow
not to think of him. Dancing the tumbao --
five, six -- hesitation into step – eight,
hips a pendulum swinging, shifting of weight,
clave beats heavy, let it not conjure
undulations of deltoid, teres major:
my rumba practice will not stall to recall
how he smelled my hair in a pause so small.
After the shower, I stand, naked, before the mirror
seeking the beauty he insists is there.
Sorting my laundry, I will not implore
brief boxers white lying on wooden floor.
The voices tell me, "We told you so."
I should have known better. This I know.
Along his body soft caress of fingertips
as his eyelids close lick fullness of lips,
taste of Aztec nose, brushes of eyelash,
and when the phone rings, I answer.
copyright 2009
Lisa
Cheby |
