August 8, Montréal, hot
A dream of rubbing cold water
Down the rocky back of a strong woman.
In the sweat of a summer evening
She is stretched over so that the water and my
hands flow from waist to neck, lifting her stuck
muscle-shirt. I try to find her breasts, but the
dream changes. I am wetting back her thick curly
hair with my hands. She is smiling. I know and
love her face. I don't know if she loves mine.
Later, in the moonlight, I negotiate something
vaguely sexy with another strong, rocky woman.
Not sure (still) whether she digs men or not;
Another known and loved face and body,
But in an unaccustomed openly erotic place
She goes to the iridescent payphone across the
room. It flashes nervously that line two, downstairs,
is in use.
I sit apprehensively on one arm of the couch,
tipping it up on two legs.
A robber in the skylight has climbed up the
scaffolding outside and points a flashlight at my
underwear.
I am shocked, and think of hiding my fading desire.
911.
In the wake(ing) of this unnerving scene,
(in Jesus name, Amen)
an angel sits outside my open window,
playing a saxophone.
I want it to leave, since I ve always thought angelic
music was cheesy when played
on the saxophone.
It persists. I sweat in my bed
- Loren Carle
