POETRY
Roberta Greifer
2 Poems
trying to remember
the silence of these Sundays without my mother each morning when she phoned what did we talk about? I can’t remember. so hard to conjure up her exact words our conversations a melting pot of memories her voice a soothing lullaby of sound the past locked away now in a safe deposit box its key forever lost Photo Shoot "You're pretty," He says, Peeling off my clothes And arranging me On a white shag rug Between baskets of ripe fruit. Seventeen, I'm impressed. As his camera snaps me, I admire the glossy photos Of sexy models Plastered on his walls. Between shots He pants over me. Puddles of his sweat Collect on my midriff. I don't know enough To panic Until he's inside me. Then it's too late. Our thighs slosh together Like a sloppily made sandwich. Finished He hops off me like an insect Lights a Camel and says nothing. His smoke rings make the only Conversation as I dress. "I'll call you," He mutters and hands me A wet dollar bill From his tight jeans pocket Before I scramble out the door. So this is sex, I think. Why all the fuss? |
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