The problem isÖ

this woman you fell in love with,
the landlordís black eyed daughter,
rose blood-red against her thick hair,
whose fingers moved in dreams,
perhaps planning her next painting
or recalling her last trail along your body
in those dark Mexican nights,
your hideaway, your haven,
the air filled with starlight and falling coconuts,
the ocean roaring seashells to your door,
this woman whose body now spreads
limp like a quilt across her bed,
whose bottom needs to be wiped,
mouth to be fed, body washed,
over and over, day after day,
until you forget Mexico, forget
the quickening of your heart
whenever you touched her,
now only wondering if youíll sleep
through the night, if your arms
will endure the emptiness
of her gradual fade.


Published Rusty Truck, June 2013


(c) Pris Campbell

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