Other Couples Are Foreign Countries

You can visit them
like one visits Indonesia
or South Africa

or Brazil,

but you are a tourist
encountering 

the Chamber-of-Commerce's
promotional exhibit,

the Ministry of Propaganda's 

redacted adaptation.

You must venture beyond

the guarded perimeter

to experience the primal truths

of romantic coupling:

        wander stark-naked 

        into the wilderness,

        go full native 

        with the indigenous,

        sacrifice 

        to their heathen gods,

        paint your flesh with 

        the blood

        of their enemies.

All are born savage.

The barbarian lurks beneath

a veneer of civility.

Some conceal it more than others,

many from themselves.

This is especially the custom
of social media mavens

who broadcast a tinsel parade 

through the capital square 

while their union rots 

at its foundation.

Each of us is on all fours

with a stranger, 

toiling for glimpses 

of the transcendent,

seizing them, at best, 

enough to prolong 

the alliance.

There is nothing to envy
but those magnificent moments
discovered
in your homeland.

**First published in Barbar Literary Magazine

Other Women

He encounters her daily, 

on the streets, the television, 

at the pool,
in bars, airports, 

laundromats and supermarkets.

Sometimes she is brunette, 

other times blonde, 

recurrently Asian, Latina 

or African-American.  

Once, she was a blind, ginger

concert pianist.

Always lively and aloof 

with an irreverent smile

and hips that swing 

to the devil's groove.  

He imagines their life together:

    days sparked 

    with high adventure, 

    rapturous nights 

    of fellowship and fucking, 

    vacations 

    on the Coast of Mexico.  

It would not be work.

She would prepare breakfast for him 

and tend to her garden 

on weekends.

She would have her own money, 

an inheritance from a birth father 

possessed of the grace to pass away 

before their engagement.

There would be few arguments 

between them,
and she would respect the artist, 

careful not to distract him 

with trivial matters 

such as house cleaning 

or automotive repair.

He would call her, Mi Dama Amante, 

and dedicate his works to her.

But for her fixation 

with ceramic lawn gnomes, 

she would be impeccable.

The meddling midget devils.

He cannot stand them

posted like sentinels about the lawn, 

scrutinizing every movement.

Even her younger sister agrees, 

the gnomes are a peculiar fetish.

The sister lives in West Hollywood, 

teaches yoga and dances professionally.

She laughs at his jokes.  

He thinks of her often.

Convinced she is adrift

without him.


**First published in Bluing the Blade, and winner of the "Bragi Poetry Award" at Tempered Runes Press.