Porch steps

perched on porch steps
in not-yet summer
he’s picking out notes from between
my teeth and laying them across
the strings of his well-loved Martin.

I’m watching his mouth never close
and his body rock-
easing in and out of comfortable territory,
while I try to transpose
his cloudy chordsĀ into poetry.


New Woman

Last night, I found him in bed with a new woman.
She was electric, red-bodied
knobs perfectly placed.
Running his sticky palms over the length of her –
Strings untrimmed, he plucked at her delicately
sliding up her neck
a crystalline crescendo, she wailed
beneath his calloused fingers
the perfect woman (a humorless oxymoron)-
loud in bed, well-tuned
a fondness for his hands.
She is a Gibson, he said
but she looked cheap to me.