sometimes we post in the cemetery
waiting for someone to call with chest pain
she finds it amusing, surrounded by bodies
I find her morbid, the way her eyes gleam
in the dark, putting the ambulance in park
being on the road is lonely, she once told me
when she wound her finger through my hair
I didn’t stop her from making a home there
and when her lips brushed my lips
turning the tips of my ears pink,
I pushed her out the driver’s door
and through another, eyeglasses clattering
at our socked feet, her lenses shattering
and while she peeled back my uniform
my hands, shaking, undoing her belt,
I wondered if he was home alone
or with his best friend or baking something
sweet she whispered between her teeth,
hands cupped behind my knees
outside, it began sprinkling
I lost myself in her rhythm
keeping him far from this wanton behavior
.
sometimes we post at the church on 11th
and if I drive slow enough,
we glimpse the city deer grazing under the trees
under the light of the Cross,
she tells me about her wife
but if we’re anywhere else,
she doesn’t mention the woman
a saint, I guess, who coordinates
activities at a nursing home
I’m tempted to reply,
shut up and fuck me
but I crane my neck instead
watching the fawns nuzzle
against each other
I wonder what his skin feels like
how, the other day, we met in the garage
I couldn’t take my eyes off his face
the sheen of sweat across his cheeks
we met and I thought I conjured the whole thing
he said he was just a fabrication
of my over-active imagination
I believed him—
the truck jolts into drive; she says
we’ve got a drunk downtown
so I carefully tuck my thoughts away
.
sometimes we post in the empty lot
cornered by train tracks and construction sites
this is where he starts his mornings,
after clocking in, waiting for an assignment
this is my favorite place to be,
where, at night, a homeless man sleeps
in the bushes; here, I don’t let her
touch me, feigning busyness
on my phone, typing reports
or resting my eyes to get through the shift
she’s usually good at taking hints
but occasionally, she’ll reach across the cab
and caress knuckles across my face
closing my eyes—I can’t help it—
I imagine it’s his fingers,
leaning into the sensation
she thinks I’m sighing for her
it’s only when the chill of her wedding band
catches my jawline
that I pull away, realizing
we are cruel women
and we are liars,
chasing pleasure
when love is impossible
Just Thoughts 