Me and the boys,
we talk dirty and drink
anything in the house
that isn't corked 'cause
the screw's busted
and I'm lazy
and twist-top Merlot
gets the tongue wagging
just as good as top-shelf
scotch I forgot to buy.
These nights we set
my neighbors' ears ablaze
with our coarse smattering:
obscenities, Spanish, Hebrew,
me too sober for Chinese,
too drunk for French,
settling somewhere in between
Chaucer and death metal,
though at least my pipes
are too lubed to sing
Like a loose canary
from a mine shaft:
been through hells the others
don't know, shouldn't care,
and so have they,
but we don't discuss ugly
like a woman's affairs,
fouled laundry no place
for live wire and grease
and a 3-dog night.
Only the waking is hard:
4AM and no you
to calm the liquor-dreams,
catch my filthy mind,
ask me what I meant
in my polyglot ramblings
splattering the toilet bowl,
but stopping to admire
my tight ass. Boy,
I loved being your girl.
Saturdays
Saturdays are risky.
Saturdays I stumble
out of liquor dreams
wanting my piano
and a dose of poems,
trip over the Raiden-cat
who doesn't know
the word "Father," only
the men in Mommy's
life fleeting as spring
over the East River,
Saturdays I remember
Your hands touching
curve of hip, tangle
of thigh, that smile
after the kiss it took
a week to plan
and my clumsiness
as always a third
party to be gotten
over, after all that,
a salute. The excavation
gone to completion,
you spoke the words.
A genie rose shrieking
from the bedside lamp,
"Not true." I know,
still I gave you
benefit of a doubt:
no doubt you loved
within that moment,
your flesh in mine
unfurling together an eternity,
our love was eternal
for a moment. Trouble is,
Saturdays, I love still.
Fang Bu is the author of Spring Cleaning. She currently lives and works in New York City.
