Spy in the Still Perfect Light
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