Poetry, Lee Pursewarden

IN FOUR WINDS THE LADIES ARGUE

ABOUT THEIR FUTURE WITH THE POET,     Lee Pursewarden

The first one says, I was writing

love letters in a burning building

barefoot, in a red nightgown

something one doesn’t wear to sleep in

per se, I was thinking of St. Francis

& his wine, red too, like the beaks

of crows dipped in road kill.

 

The other, quoting from scripture, said

I will see him across traffic, waiting

for me.  We had met but I didn’t know him

& when I was crying with desire, my fingers

not enough, he will show me his cock, not

as a sword, but gently, & he will bathe me

& bring me coffee in bed, kiss my scars

& come to Church, his hands, oh his hands

will be like birds, like dragonflies along

my spine my thighs, whispering pines

& promises on boulders on the lake.

 

The younger one said, No, as for me

I will meet him in the city, not anyone

I should be with, no – the other poets more

my age, no one would approve.  I will

imagine mornings in his motel, my clothes

on the floor, my mother flying overhead.