I miss her loving,
But most of all
Her garlic kiss,
The root of my attention
On the gaseous waste
Between her lips,
The aromatic passion
Of our stinking summer nights,
The fearful dawn
Of muted conversations
And poorly scented love-bites.
Of course I miss her beauty too,
The savage taste in varnish,
That intoxicating mix
Of pink and blue, which
Crowned musicians' fingers,
Crooning lullabies
And nocturnes,
Smoothing out the mental chaos,
Ever tender on my gout and worms.
But those are memories clouded
By the scent I wear in perpetuity
Upon my wrist.
For more than life
I miss her garlic kiss.
© Alex Frankel 1999
