She Had Bought a Negligee

far from here and never worn. “It’s red” I mused. She giggled or anticipated. They were words, not words as they can be words said to break the ice. “Yes, it is” with a broad smile then hid her lower lip behind her upper teeth and lashed down expectantly waiting for my mouth would say no more words more than icebreakers. And it was a song, and I saw she hadn’t known as I hadn’t. Only dreamt. Of an island. Or a better Amish world on a Vangelis tune promising creativity. Those are words of course as they are words and no more. She also knew to do the dishes; not to wet me she pushed with her pulses. Hey, I saw you smile in the uncommon mirror when I kissed the curve between your neck and shoulder. I’ll paint you in despair because I cannot as you are, although I think I know a lot as you do and cannot hold me in your words, only in the no-words between the lines where none can find me or you in my hemp abstracts. A negligee is easier and says a lot which is why I said it’s also red and can be seen and caught in that word so openly pregnant of many no-words. She doesn’t iron, she folds. That’s a secret not unknown under women. Or men. 04/08/09