13thWR

JEAN'S TEA

She's in a Colonial Inn
hotel restaurant on your birthday.
Under her wine lipstick
bruises, under her panties,
she is drying out from welling
up for you an hour before.
Jean's green tea now
tepid in a cheap white cup.
Notice the rim stained
with burgundy waning
crescent moons.

Your chicken noodle soup
only lukewarm,
swollen with stale saltines
jammed in with your spoon,
two-by-two, she whines
across a table lacquered blue.

You left her in bed,
slick with sweat,
slipped from bed, showered
for many hours.
Watching water slide
from skin, descend down drain,
clockwise in the northern
sexual hemisphere,
then turning counter
clockwise, her scent
rinsed away.

- Claudine R. Moreau