A woman who arrays herself
in white glitter — its dangerous deeds
and dazzling tang ,
moves among the Joshua trees
where ravens flare on the branch
like substitute flames on a bent
I think of how you praise the salt surrogate
we set at our table. Oh! splendor of litany
as you lament:
A marketable sham,
all shadow no substance.
Nothing of the original sin
found in rock, kosher or sea,
nothing of the sting ( stimulating)
lips and libido,
and nothing ( Dear God) of lineage
traced to ancient roads
& serving customs ( in the sand)
with handmaidens and bread.
Nothing but a desert
in itself, this terrible shift of grain.
And so, Sweet Love, the temptation
you’ve shunned and shoved into the wilderness
is out there waiting for a soul.
A soul kiss
that will hook the tongue and make the palette
reliant on her;
once more, evermore — or what she fears most
as she glides past the Jurassic bush
burning iridescent with its birds
and glances sideways at me.
I ‘m the other woman
The wife. The saint. Her rival.