Poem, "Ice"

Ice

Here in the electric dusk, a sky black with the glow of endless light pollution

You, naked, allow condensation to drip on your skin, the cold sensation

The glass lined with rivulets and filled with crushed ice

Promising the ache of touching against your teeth.

You are beautiful, your hair twisted and deranged

A finger dragging thru rings of wet on the end table

You are steaming with hatred of the heat

As the music fades and the anticipation of the next tract hangs in the empty air

To break in, to speak, seems wrong, there are no words

Such a long last night—full of “o’s” from erogenous zones

You're not an erotic hallucination,

Not a feverishly scrawled poem,

You are a reality of splendor

You are serious

You are severe

You are larger than life in the night

This box, sweltering,

This exhaustion, from passion resembling madness

The absent moon of gentle magic

You hold my eyes, enraptured

In the half second of complete quiet, you smile

Sweaty, hot, messy, with your glass of ice

Ice, ice... You know the rest of the lyrics.

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            This was inspired by a friend of mine who came to mind when I read this poem, “Heat” by Denis Johnson.  As always I am hesitant to say, “I wrote this about you,” as that always feels a bit forward.

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