I loved him
Right to my bones
(like that obsessive pair
in that French movie
I saw long ago)
Each other over the edge.
(Their sexual attraction electromagnetic
like animals in heat,
she passive, yielding, moaning,
he all teeth and force, grunting, groaning.)
We lay together like smokers of hashish
Oblivious to all but caressing fingers, swirling tongues,
The pressure of loins against loins.
(That woman got a gun.)
Just last week
I’d been dreaming of guns.
(She could not resist
the inexorable, erotic urge
and lay down beneath him
one last time.)
And I last night next to him,
Forgetting briefly that this sensual heaven is a spiritual hell.
Panting, longing to penetrate his heart,
As he, panting, strove only to penetrate flesh.
(I watched horrified
as she held his spent body close,
still joined to hers,
and reached for the gun.
Two shots echoed in the theater.
The audience too stunned to move,
sat, eyes fixed, and silent
while the credits rolled.)
I pulled away,
My skin still burning,
Insides throbbing and empty.
My apologies, weak and ineffective,
I shook, afraid to look in his furious eyes.
He rising, dressing, cursing,
Silhouette at the open door,
The crack of wood against jamb,
Deafening as a shot.
I stopped dreaming of guns.