Coffee at Noon by the Window

I looked at your long fingers in the sunlight,

pale and delicate as paper, and I thought:

Those same fingers were in someone's pussy

at one time or another, someone he loved,

someone who is by all means not me—

I wish I can cut them off, those

horrible tendril testaments

to your passionate treachery.

Those fingers, like a key, snug within her,

both of you writhing in savage pleasure.

I want to amputate them, one by one, using

a butcher's knife, each crushing beat

to the cadence of a love song—

How DEEP is your LOVE

I REALLY NEED to KNOW.

I will keep one, of course, to hide

under my pillow. I will preserve it in oil

and wish upon it, confess to it

my desperate and sad love for you.

It will remind me of the beauty of your whole—

It will rot until it is no more

but bone and bits of maggots,

never to touch anyone but me.

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