Lust. He reminds me that we could never have topped perfectionwhich isProbably true.The German priest refuses to participate and asks how hepossible could use one word not in his native language and easilymisinterpreted by me to describe the indescribable thing that wewere and were not.We lived joined at the hip for three years, longing for somethingnamelessA home, a connection that would last and not touching.He would never hug me, perhaps knowingalcohol and loneliness could ease us over An edge we would regret later. ButHow did I have the heart to tell him, I would have regrettedNothing. His and God’s relationship was none of my doingAnd besides, my theology teaches megod lives between the spaces of our breath in the dark.The Irishman who charmed me by mailput me up for the night in Belfast,sends me the kinds of emails my brother might send.Anecdotes and information tidbitsThis game I have forwarded on.We started with the hum of curiosity and whimsy,drank and had monkey sex with little consciousness and numb joy.We stand here stuck at what now,neither wanting to give up freedom or options.He fishes for a word that will impress me.it does.I would be more impressed with naked desire.5.Ah, the stupidity of desire, the foolishness of lust.The phone calls, the frantic meetings,the time running out against your last orgasmthe hurried train ride back to the 1000
goodbyethe tears and the making upAnd the lies. Oh god, don’t forget the lieswhich drip down my cleavagerip out my heart make me aware of the blood pumpingThrough it..Such aphrodisiacs are only forgedby madmen and callow youth.6.The poet I fell for as a girl still sends melittle tokens of his esteem.