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Scotch and Soda
The front door slipped from its latch and he
came in — the man you're married to and love.
He knows about this Us, this you-and-me,
and it is for his sake that words like "love"
and "tomorrow" don't flow between us easily
when the disk slips into the groove on the CD
player and your shirt lifts above your head,
my ice settling in my glass, the beads
of sweat from the summer heat rising
on our skin. Here the truth is surprising
even to me: I don't mind what we don't
say, what you can't feel. "I love you" is scary.
I mean something lighter. What I want:
Lay with me — wide-eyed, wary.
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©2000 Jenny Factor and Nerve Publishing
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