portion of the artwork for Jim Davis's poem

Spy in the Still Perfect Light
Jim Davis

It’s me again, another dawn but the same
unfamiliar bed, she is once more waking
& trying to remember my name, praying
that forgetting will fall behind the rooftops
where it came from because it is Sunday
& yesterday she wasn’t so much a sinner.
Begrudgingly suspecting me too
of simplicity, she stropped a razor
to suggest perhaps that lust was anything
other than aggressions of hunger or depravity
in the chary flicker of a cinnamon candle
set on the bed table like the fading tattoo
of the Chinese character for sun. I sneeze.
She takes me apart at the seam with her teeth.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 46 | Fall 2015