I once went out with a woman
who prided herself
on undoing my pants
with her mouth.

I can see my zipper
in between her teeth
like the key to a room

in which all desires are spoken.

I remember the one time
we just talked. A deep snow
had closed the world. She pushed
herself through drifts
to my door.

I bent down and took off
her boots. We drank weak tea
and watched the white falling
burying the world.

We lost each other
in a storm of tongues
in her small room
liquefying in the heat
like expensive chocolates.

Her name was Betty.
Or Betsy.

Actually, we didn’t say
much. We watched the snow.
We agreed we’d never seen
anything like it.

I hold
that small room inside me,
a package. My name was Jim
or Joe.

She sent me a note
to tell me I tasted good.
I don’t have that note.

I have her eyes looking up
pure, unfiltered and fearless.

I was named by my parents
as she was. No one else
stripped me like that.­­

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