Warm Cold Dead Dark

Warm Cold Dead Dark

Women are tales to be read
in a warm bed-- I passed by your house
and a night light was on— second
story window and I imagined
a warm woman reading
herself to herself and warm
fingers turning pages, slow,
for the story was to be read
metering in easeful pace
to her warm heart’s beat.

Miles away in the town dump
a cold dead dog lay atop a heap.
Beyond, tucked down before land
elevates to a cold steep hill,
and nestled between two berms,
lay a shallow cold pond--
a summer ago two naked women
holding cold hands waded
into that pond to their knees,
lay face down and drowned, cold.

The second-story window light went out.
On some street below I leaned against
a dark rusted lamppost under a light more
dark than the light lighting the dark street.
I waited for someone to crawl out a window
holding a torch— someone to walk ahead
by three or four steps, lighting the dark.

I would follow and make my way
to that hilly dead pond and find there –
there— two dead women floating face down,
arms outspread and quite dead
wearing warm cold dark dead panties
with crotches cut out.

I wondered where that fabric was now,
that cut-out part. I also wondered
why that part was cut … out. Out.

I imagined a pair of women with shiny sissors
cutting out crotches-- shiny panties,
and I wondered why a single garment
was called ‘a pair.’

Like saying ‘a pair of pants.’
In admiration, 'a pair of tits.'
Like saying Irish whiskey.
Like saying, 'I'm going to Vegas.'
Like saying--
'My need for love is enormous.'

What's it like?

This question remained to be asked--
maybe someone on a Christian blog
could take time away from singing
in fucking choirs to answer.
　
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