She has insane, but trustworthy eyes.
Like the eyes of a discredited cult leader
they fill with blue virtuous light as she smiles,
invite me to lose myself.

When I am out with them,
she, her husband, and her eyes,
I can't meet her gaze for fear I won't return home.


"...prevent a violent crime?" her husband asks me,
and I nod,
blankly, mired in metaphysical foreplay.

"Uh-huh. I guess so."

He smiles, satisfied.
I feel caught.

Does she know how I feel? She is all-knowing,
this middle-class avatar,
this brown-haired married goddess.
She must know, but she denies my searching look
seats herself at the other end of the table.

Someone's mother
sitting with half a bottle of white wine
on a night that could permenantly change
the course of our lives.


"Speaking of stab wounds..." he turns back to me.

"Were we?"

She laughs.
Cruel music and
I drop quickly out of my dream
of the scent of power between her small breasts
the majestic incline of her naked shoulders
and down, down into my mortal body
which is just now reaching across the table
for my beer glass in the most casual
and natural gesture I can spontaneously create.

JD Frey--March 13, 1997


more poems?