Alexis Rhone Fancher
TONIGHT I DREAM OF MY LAST MEAL WITH MY FIRST EX-HUSBAND WHO WAS BOTH FICKLE AND BENT.
There was yet another threesome on the menu. Him, the platinum divorcée from next door, and that TV actress who followed me home. A triple-decker; blonde on blonde on blonde. Hold the mayo. I knew they'd hit it off. Like replacement china. Each of them chipped someplace marginal. I admit to damaged, self-besotted, brunette. When I married him I thought: I will divorce you in a year. What was he thinking? He used to tie me to the bed posts - the only way he could get off. I didn't mind. He hated that. When the shenanigans paled, and his money ran out, I wanted out. Was that when he decided to keep me, and the TV actress, and the platinum blonde? Never could make up his mind. His dick (did I mention?) was slanted to the left, like his politics. A girl could get addicted to that bit of kink.
TONIGHT I DREAM OF MY SECOND EX-HUSBAND WHO PLAYED PIANO BETTER THAN HERBIE HAND-COCK.
Naked and unperturbed, hard-on the size of an Eagle Scout's flashlight, he watches me sleep, standing at my bedside like he still lives here. Framed drawings of me, 17 and naked, hang like cautionary muses above my bed. His eyes devour them like that sweet girl still exists. Like he didn't grind her into extinction with each lie, each humiliating indiscretion. In this dream he's twenty-five, and almost sure he loves me. And then he's thirty. And then he's gone. But right now he's tonguing me from behind, (that drawing of me on all fours), my labia symmetrical, curving against my inner thighs like geometry. He fingers his cock. He looks like Wesley Snipes in Blade. He pinches my left nipple; his practiced mouth seeking out my complicity. Why does the fantasy always best real life? My second ex-husband sits on the edge of my dream, smoothes the hair from my forehead with his piano-widened hands. When his fingers dance arpeggios on my face it feels like foreplay. When I reach for the dildo on the nightstand, it starts itself.
I need to tell you how days drag now
that you're gone; no phone calls or Skype.
The light is never bright or warm. No one
wants to dance. Today I emptied an old bottle
of your pills, packed it with Hindu Kush,
drove to the beach. Lit up.
It's legal now in California.
I play your favorite music; Buena Vista
Social Club, Ibrahim Ferrer.
Remember that yellow bikini you used to wear?
It made you look invincible, like a star.
I'd wear the Che Guevara cap you brought
from Cuba when we danced, girl on girl
to Dos Gardenias. Our song.
Your breasts crushing mine.
Those signature gardenias pinned in your hair.
Now I dance alone, my screen dark.
I will not weep. You'd hate it.
Since you died, I play Dos Gardenias
every day, and the way the palm trees sway
breaks my heart.
You're out there, dancing,
Your yellow bikini a beacon, if only I could find it
in the star-crossed night.