Over the Line

There are no more Jonatha Brooke
songs to be sung about how I will
leave the light on.

I will not leave the light on.

The grainy gray of your face illuminated
everything.
I am hungry for
better men.

You had me. Lovely.
Brown eyed. Wild haired.
Sweet skinned, sharp angled,
exotic kitten.
You had me
wrapped in low carb tortillas,
at the mouth of a bottle of
Negra Modelo,
the golden glow of Johnny Walker Black
bowing at your feet, the lip of a shot glass
or the foot of your amp, kissing the strings
you bent

me over

had me whimpering
whispering honey
tangled in linen
tied down, blind
open mouthed and drinking;
you had me
with shiraz and a cigarette burning,
tiny moon wishing and back porch
sitting; you had me with midnight clouds
laughing high from rhythm
standing in heels on cracked sidewalks
outside dive joints
stalking back parking lots on Chittenden and
Fourth, short skirts.

You had me
clapping from the sidelines,
feeding your solos, you had
me
making
you
look better.

Now,
the song is sung.

I will not leave the light on.

The grainy gray of your face illuminated
everything.

I have me. Lovely.
Brown eyed. Wild haired.
Unkempt fury of passion
unleashed to the wilds
of imagination.
The possibilities
exhausted
exhume the roots of
self to
ignite on the lips
of the next words spoken;
to soften on the moan
of a saxophone, twine about the
wrists of the next riff, I will
ride the train
of blues chord progressions
to satiation. This canvas dance.
This paper mate.
These sentences strung round
like magnolia—
slowly, slipping in and out
of delicate things. What I touch,
belongs to heaven.