Burlap
(or There Is No Such Thing as a Good Divorce)
Unlike the sleek touch of satin,
you insisted skeptically,
there is no magic in burlap.
I had to agree.
Although a year before me, you had
pulled that trick of crystal and china off
with minimal upset, I knew
for me it would be rough.
Slowly I
set out
each place with
excruciating care.
I deliberately balanced
plate against plate in harmonious splendor,
the curve of the glasses orbiting
the bowls, all so intricately ordered.
Then I lingered until the fall of the amber light,
when each flash of the silver glitters ethereal,
gleaming like a stream wrinkled by twilight’s final flare
languidly slipping down its dusky, bone broken banks.
I held my breath until the tawny shadows
of burlap engulfed the sparkling
mosaic of the goblets rich with burgundy,
until the bristles of the weave itself seem to breathe.
It’s all in the wrist, I chuckled nervously,
plucking the beige burlap with a single smooth tug.
My entire patient placement abruptly asunder,
all that I had worked for lay scrambled on the rug.
Down in this shatter
of once noble glass.
Down among the spiked
chips of the china.
Down on this bleeding
bed of invisible splinters,
between the heady mists
and staining red of the wine,
wrapped up here in prickly cloth,
in the midst of this mess of my making,
we spooned scarred and swollen
in a flood of our kisses. Curve to angle
and cup to cup, we replenished
ourselves with a bounty
of exquisite emptiness.
It is true.
There is no enchantment here
in the scratch of the burlap,
nor any warmth still alive
in the silken folds of old satin.
Although passion stirs lonely in the bitter
scrape of glass against the wired cloth,
fresh magic smolders suddenly afire
as skin brushes skin.
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