Sympathy for the dry

When he comes home

She turns into a water lily

Her face rivals the new moon

Even he, with pulsing self-love, is dazzled enough

To take her dining when it’s properly late

Like vampires sustained on blood

They slip, effortlessly through willing night

Reminding her of when she was young

And her breasts lush like Mexican limes

Where boys like him would go beyond themselves

To touch her flowering in their earnest

Though it was a long time ago

She hears the haunting of her dew rinsed self

Reflected in men’s eyes and curved belt buckles

When she’d strip like a gleaming seal and dive in the deep end

They’d search with their flounder for her pearly center

Not realizing

She was already floating somewhere in frangipani

Light footed and naked

Of all sympathy for the dry

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12 thoughts on “Sympathy for the dry

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