The Alchemy of Love

For Lady K.

It was certainly magical the way we met:
inside the alchemy of your lover’s poems;
followed by the famous night
we turned the same street corner
in different directions that soon became one.
We drank, frolicked & shot pool
(I don’t recall who won,
but know neither of us cared…
the real point was always heading elsewhere),
finally ending up in his bed
and making it ours alone.
A revolutionary act?
Maybe that, too.
But kabalistic realism
in the prayerful service
of unbridled lust, for sure.
Looking back, I admire our purity:
the logical insistence
that we fuck without fucking.
It was both a pinch decision
and a new kind of first:
I being the only other
(you said oh so softly
even as your eyes burned
with the joyful heat of craving)
to lie with you on the alchemist’s altar.
You were still murmuring
as you ferociously lurched for me.
Come morning you clearly recalled
all the oral scenes,
but forgot how hard you laughed
when I wrote my own wet sonnet
(in perfect Italian meter, even)
all around your navel;
then rolled on top of you,
squeezing each sticky line
through the rhyming pores
of our heatedly sweating skin,
while you whispered
for the 25,000th time
how terribly much you loved me.
If only that night
I’d been carrying a rubber…
God knows, we might still be together.
Then there’d really be trouble, eh?
I love you, too, of course;
but prefer not to stretch magic
finally to the breaking point.
Next time we meet,
I can only hope that all three of us
know how to handle ourselves,
and still remain friends.
Especially for communists,
mixing strange sperm
with affectionate slogans
should present no problem.
I’ll muse on that tonight,
even while dreaming
of how wonderful it might be
to properly penetrate you.
What went down between us
was way beyond a one night stand.