I’d like to think the reason
you pin those bug-eyed Ray-Bans gazes on my rainbowself is
because in the solitude of lassitude you envy me;
you covet mine–
you wish to touch my feel.
or maybe I just have a crush on you;
why else would I care that you’re looking at me?
I’d like to know your laughter is because
you find me amusing/that you’re titillated to tears
by my nonjokes and my unriddles
and coffee cups stirred with innuendo:
a tongue for a straw,
lapping up attention as it steams from the froth to dissipate.
(I could be coffee, you know.
At least it leaves an aftertaste.)
or maybe I just want you;
why else would I care that you remembered me?
I’d like to believe your lips are on mine
because you want them there–
because you notice the subtlest tilt of my smallish mouth
as I struggle to drive home a point and get lost in the middle of the road,
strand myself on islands of half-assed debate and debacle,
and taste the sweet fires the sour ice brings to my tongue.
I’d like to believe you wanted that.
I’d like to believe these are your fingers in mine
(that you needed my pulse).
or maybe I just wanted to fuck you;
why else would I care that you touched me?
I’d like to have faith that
this magnanimous magma you’re converting
from my hot-tempered French
and sweetly submissive Caucasian blood–
the earthen calm of Native Americans and whatever I took
from my Spanish and Italian ancestors is a promise;
a covenant sealed by the semen
somewhere on somebody’s sheets–
(this is not su casa so it’s not mi casa, now is it love?)
I’d like to have faith that the breath that I stole from a dying man
[myself five minutes before]
means that I’m not a whore after all.
or maybe I’m in love with you;
why else would I care that I woke up alone?