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R u m m y   P a r k

b y   R e b e c c a   L u   K i e r n a n

55.  The Polar Opposite

I ache to kiss him,
I look through him
As if he were a ghost
And deep-throat his polar opposite
Beneath the humid island night
Of mango, serrated palm leaf, tiger lily.
I touched his cheek in a dream,
I come on the lips of his polar opposite
Upside down and backwards
While watching the sodium  sky
For a plane from New York
Where an old lover
Compulsively fingers his new beard
Unclairvoyant that it will render me
Comfortless, incompliant,
This man whose tiger skin bed I shared
For five lightning-fast years
Of blue grass and glassy lakes
And labyrinthic caves.
He is bristling at a patient's suicide,
The second in a life's work,
Really not a bad record
If you do the math
For caring exclusively
For the most fragile ledge pacers
Of us all.
But what bothers him most,
Is not that they were the two greatest actresses
Who didn't drop him a clue,
But that he found them beautiful
So beautiful that he kissed a part of them
Silently, darkly, unprosecutably,
And the most dangerous moment, he blinked.
My disappearance was just as unapologetic
And this is why he returns
To collect the polar opposite
Of what's left of me.

poetry & photos © 2006 Rebecca Lu Kiernan

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