#rum thoughts

Next! The song was an ode to her eyes. The man thought she was a miracle and the ocean conferred. She was beautiful, all he could want, as he told the world. They match. I am fighting envy. I am a little drunk. My eyes don’t sparkle like the sky. My eyes look like forest mud, and I feel lower than that. I choose the next song. Something raunchy.

The sound of ice groaning at water’s edge when sun steps into cobwebs unfazed by the mess we make. A burst of warmth inside somewhere between spine and hips and belly lifting us above the fray. Morning after a night full of silence and shifting legs dancing in sleep to a faraway song.

Pour me a glass It seems the fancy glassware in the corner cupboard may never be used. We use the same scratched tumblers and stone mugs as we cycle through dishes and suppers and towels each day, each week. What are you thinking? Nothing much. A good pesto recipe. How far apart we are. Will it snow next week? How dark a place is it where punishment is release? I should reread “Bluebeard.” How flexible we can be when there’s heat. We set the table again and again, with the same tumblers and a new pesto recipe.

Outside the Gate On the inside, I’m dancing like the young lithe branch off a tree I used to feel like, yet when I walk, I feel my hips rocking the fog around me like Mae West might be doing in Heaven, parting those clouds in ways to make the Saints blush, and I wonder if my place is to swing on a star just outside the gate.

Like a dash full of porn The moon’s crescent was perfect over the grocery parking lot, gritty-shiny with snow and salt. The cart was sluggish, full of meat and candy and soap. My cheeks were flushed from the glimpse of porn when I opened tumblr in line at the checkout. I was looking forward to Friday: stromboli and rum and the promise of cookies at home...