KEN
RUMBLE
Other Men Have Loved Me, But Not for
Six Months in a Row
OTHER MEN HAVE LOVED ME, BUT NOT FOR SIX MONTHS IN A
ROW
Laundry1
plies confessional trade –
our love’s
asleep. You: by the fish tank
fearing relativism has
lost us, left us
lobsters on the
seafloor. Me: yellow
since the war and
covered in butterflies. The cat
waits to jump the buffet
table. Guileless
salmon filet the lettuce
sea: the party grows toothy
dancing girls. What is it they see
in this dessert
campaign? A board of fluff,
icing to smooth. You: left before the cards
were on the table. Triangulate, ungulate
antennae. Me: fear the sea’s brine
remains, the everything
the sea can be.
from
25.xii.2000
_______, my secret
sharer, shhhhh.
My heart of
blackness.
Portuguese widows in Adams Morgan
knit their own dark
shawls. Let me
spin you
a yarn
I say
there's only
one
story:
yours.
from
another 2000 DC New Year's
I call hotels (the different/the same
a blue striped taxi
(Barwood,
suburban corpuscles then
yellow checks (the city
now
a Ghanaian driver
(but
is he black?
then Arabic. Dinner reservations
for
four? Yes, no
six. If
I stepped
from my body
(black
or white)
into your body
(black
or white)
I could watch my
(black
or white)
body do this:
A hotel on the hem
of
(girls
(not Jennys
and you
rent a room.
Polly.
((what does
narrative do
talk her into going
down
(What does the city
a dry hump of ink