A black widow hangs around in the dark
belly-up in a bed of silk
night and day.
There is no hourglass on my midriff,
no patience in any hair, part, or pore
no remote control villainy Julia may jot down
no penchant for felony blagging or steaming
no waste of my radar or arms on ghostly subjects,
and not one teeny tiny reason to hold out for booty.
In fact, I am by nature the antidote to pain.
Even the villas of my mind are bright and lively
from white columned porch to green courtyard,
where backs —
muscular, slick, ebony backs
glisten on rows of low, plush daybeds,
beds that reflect delight upon delight
whether by sunlight or candlelight, and
enable me to choose willy-nilly
and kiss kiss kiss
that one’s cares away.