De Sade

There are Americans singing

In the kitchen downstairs.

I’m eating cold chicken and staring at the bed-

I don’t remember changing the sheets,

But I’m glad I did.

Jose Cuervo is winking at me

Tipping his hat

“Hola, Senorita” he says.

I just ignore him.

I’ve been thinking about cause-and-effect.

I think it’s more circular than linear.

Fate is kind of a wobbly concept.

The Americans singing have started in on Stairway to Heaven.

God help us all.

I’m glad I’m not down there. Face a veneer of sisterhood,

Arms crossed in discomfort.

Friendly people bother me. They’re too easy,

And usually easily discarded of.

I like the tough sinewy ones,

The arguers, the abusers.

My first love was a sadist, I think.

I fell in love the first time he pushed my embrace away.

When I think back, I always smile.

I’ve been thinking about the smell of black coffee

And cleaning supplies,

And the first kiss I ever had,

From a boy under five feet tall,

On the Fourth of July.

He slobbered all over me then I cried.