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Susanna Withers Poem
Afternoon bride calls: darling,
each fire gets him in jail.
Kiss loosely, my necktied octopus.
Promises quietly rustle; speechless
television undulates: voluptuously
wavering X-rated yoga,
Zen zealots, Yiddish xylophonists.
We visit undercover, tongues slow -
rhythmic quarantine, pushing on,
New Mexico lingering kaleidoscopically
just in his grasp. flee everything,
divorce cries, but amour…
Copyright © Susanna Withers | Year Posted 2025
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