In Praise of the Passion Mark
First the unintentional: raspberry
blush, many-speckled lights,
and the message: oops, sorry.
Then the hard mark of the all-nighter,
a true Hoover, a hole black as leather
daring you to plummet.
We were dancing, it just happened,
she said, helplessly sentenced
to a week of turtlenecks
in May, in the sticky South. The frozen
spoon failing, she took a curling iron
to her neck and still her mother knew
the mix of teeth and lips and love.
Alone, she admired her shoulder's
violet smear: she was wanted
and had wanted. She'd have it
needled and inked, a permanent
badge of desire, a license for love.
And when the plaid-clad chem teacher
appeared with his bright bruise,
news traveled fast: wanting
does not die after all, after age,
one sort of taking in does not
supersede another. Go
for the jugular. We cannot
be sucked
dry.
From
Côte Blanche (New Issues Press).