Liam Neeson Folds My Towels
Someone folded my towels. Someone folded themselves
into my towels. There is the harsh outline they left behind,
an imprint of hand, of ass cheek, of supple hip, of what
could be—
what could be a half-length of someone’s—I press my face to
wash cloths
and taste them, that could-be flavor of a man’s sex. I’ve
just come
from Kazim Ali’s reading. My head is filled with wings and
lust,
lust that must have been inspired by the heated way he
caressed
the microphone, leaned in, breathed poetry into us.
Someone in the crowd had moaned, a shiver
I carried back to the motel, my own breath curled into my
throat.
Someone came again while I was gone. I run my hand over the
perfectly
aligned bed sheets, think to crawl in bed still sharing the
room
with the lingering presence of a stranger. Almost exciting,
they know me.
Tomorrow I’ll leave my underwear, a rounded triangle of red
lace
for the next person to fold my towels, to make a sandwich
with my bread,
to sit at my desk, imagining me, and me in red lace. I wonder
how
they construct my face—the girl who leaves
her panties and pages of single stanzas, unfinished poetry
on the flower-patterned bed of a motel room.
My underwear held to your nose, my rhymes
folding, hungry, on your tongue.
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