Alone I fell twisted

Alone I fell twisted in a tumble

of army blankets from your bed,

fellating the dark green bottle

of your name in my head.

You walked in from Matins

to see me drunk on my own bower,

spiraled in the white jasmine

still-starlit sheets,

tonguing the thought of you

and twining the rose

wet conch of my lips

around my hot fingers.

You stared at me as though

I were a stranger

dropped from the sky.

We once were brothers,

soldiers together,

and here I had crossed the line,

betraying our friendship

with the purple outlay of my sex.

You left.

I got up, hoping to glimpse

the pageant of your life

I had never known:

So many players parading.

I sat at the foot of the stairs,

a child thrilled and clapping

at the endless twisting surprises,

Jacks and Jills kept popping.

But no one had a name.

I asked a man who looked

at me askance.

No one was so foolish here

as to give that sort of thing away—

your given name, your private,

sacred self.

Your wife appeared in a fanfare

of gasps, brocaded in barnacles

and circuitry.  Her auburn hair pulled

to an elaborate knotted chignon,

speared with scrimshaw

curved in loving homage

to the soft yellowing

nape of her neck.

Her palazzo pants

swept along,

satiny waves,

an inky caress

of us all.

I vowed to honor

your pledge to her

and bowed low

only

to see you lying laughing,

soft-spun in cashmere,

sparkling aquamarine,

starfish woven across your chest,

dredged in fine gray salt—

a silica confection

I longed to taste.

Silently I kissed your breast,

stinging my lips

with your impossibly

beautiful sand.