Love Poem Too Late
by William Doreski
In the dream creaks a dungeon. I’m there
with a hole in my pants.
Martyr? Saint?
Enough to be a sinner.
Crabgrass pries the flagstones apart.
Sweet William Flycatcher’s at the window.
Time to learn to dance.
I dance awake and there you are,
back turned,
wearing brave new panties,
silk too fine to violate.
No longer lovers, but we share a bed,
so I’ll tell you my dream.
What of those menstrual flowers?
What of the dim lacings
of death between us,
thin and final as your underwear?
Old jailbirds mated,
we’ll wake in dungeons every day
and cry “There’s been a mistake!”
You’re still asleep, even as this poem
crosses the border into print
and I step out free among
the dewy vegetables;
and you, drowsy as August maples,
linger like a toothache
I’ve learned to love to ignore.
Copyright © 2002 by William Doreski.
