You told me your body was pale, far
paler than mine, like coconut pudding,
warm off the stove as mom used to make,
and so I tested it.
For me, it became a soft pillow,
smoothed itself into my curves,
offered respite for lonely arms and hands,
pleasured parts I do not wish
to speak of now.
I am dwarfed by the dark room,
reach out to touch the cooling contour
of your indent, damp evidence of our
past days together.
You had to get back, you said.
She would be waiting.
Downstairs, my neighbor sings off key.
she has never been with a man, I hear.
She sings as if the stars have not fallen
or the sun tumbled off the horizon
into vast gray oceans where Orcas sing
of white bellies and lovers touching
pale hands in the soundlessness of space.
Published in MiPo Bonsai Edition Print 2004