JAYNE PUPEK
Photography ©2004 Fred Ellis

After Sex

Inside my house, a woman is napping.
She smells like gardenias and sweat.
I want to catch her breath in a paper cup
and save to drink again. Instead,
I sit at my desk, watch her eyes
scan dreams. Under lamplight,
her skin pales, blue veins rise,
thin fingers twitch.
Outside, cold rain pelts the window
leaving opals on the glass.
I strike match to incense,
set dark opiates on fire.
Smoke ribbons stroke her shoulders.
I balance an open notebook on my knees.
Words drift through the hazy room
and fall softly to the page.

Proof

Skeptics demand proof in bushel baskets
and names pulled from sealed envelopes.

I have neither. Do you think a woman
would whisper lies in your ear

only to see your mind's oily curve
accept what she says as true? Perhaps.

Fooled by the moon's foreplay,
the night is an unreliable narrator.

A secret often originates where it is found.
It's pointless to fight the inevitable,

the upward spiral of heat,
gravity's pull against tossed stones.

You relish the delicacy of my lips against your skin,
but don't trust stars I hung in the sky for you.

Go ahead. Tether me to the bed, love, beat confessions
from my lips. Open my diary, read the pages for yourself.

Pin me to cardboard, split me vertically throat to sex.
Peel back layers and probe the shadows you suspect.