I cannot kiss your sparkled lips
As we roam our souls downtown
City lights wander drunken, toxic
Blind ghost-kisses landing on your mouth
The wet paint from twilight’s crime
Sticks to your heels like lover dust
Leaves you adulterous and mesmerized
Vain attempts to pretend focus
You quake your spine to face my wrath
Those sacred lips of yours still moving
Two ghosts and an insomniac
That tongue of yours accusing
And who the hell may they all be
if not some ravenous intruders?
I’ll wait for death to erase me
To discuss what still behooves us
So will it be that frozen phrase?
We said: “‘Till death do us part”
If so, then kill me; do not wait!
Your vows writhe, breaking on the rocks
But you are much too cunning, Sweets
To speak cruel words, weep poison
Beneath the skies of tidy sheets
You’ll sex me till I’m noiseless
Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev
Dedicated to: E. A. P. (without traces of K)
AUTHOR’S NOTES: I’ve always found the concept of reconciliation post-adultery rather fascinating. Do people actually forgive the Other or do they merely forget? Or, which is more likely the case, do they simply pretend? Pretend to not care; pretend to not recall the atrocious act committed; pretend that it’ll never happen again.
It is, as my poem suggests (not that my interpretation of the poem has anything to add of any authority, since authorial intent is usually eradicated in the presence of the potent subjectivities of my fellow readers), the story of an adulterous affair committed by the feminine, female character. (Not that female characters are predisposed to such things; rather, I could not imagine it otherwise, being a heterosexual male myself [and such acts would, I assume, be committed against me by none other than a female character; but, of course, “God forbid!”]).
The poem begins with the negative, the “cannot” (reminding me of the “thou shalt nots” filling the Hebrew Scriptures). The characters find themselves entering city lights. And, if one is familiar with Johannine literature, one would know that sinners are afraid of entering the light. And the light becomes, for our female character, something which is rather “toxic.” Once in the light, the male character realizes the ghost-kisses, the “twilight crimes” committed by the Mrs.
But where lie her crimes? They are stuck beneath her heels; they are hidden—but they are, nonetheless, there, stuck to her like wet paint.
Once the conversation turns to confrontation, she pretends to focus. But it’s not meant to be. Then comes the victim mentality, the psychological rationalization. “Of course, it wasn’t me! It was that ghost, that invisible and ever-absent Other!”
The next several lines are self-explanatory; there is no need for me to comment on them.
The closing stanza changes the scene to the bedroom. There the couple is having sex with the male character’s voice coming to a close as he exchanges ethics and anger for sex. And so, sex wins. Sex is the de facto dictator when it comes to silencing those who have a voice, making them utterly “noiseless.”