Edda Marie soon to leave
 

Edda says she can’t come over:
she must arrange her papers
for her trip to Argentina.
“Besides,
it’s good you don’t kiss me too much.
Otherwise,
I’ll miss you a lot.”
And then: “How’s your bird?”
when she means to say beard.
I tell her it’s soft
and would like to rub itself
along her thigh
and be scratched
by her long
     fine
          fingers.

At this
she giggles and groans,
delighted at the thought,
and for a moment becomes
an unencumbered child:
the world spinning
     like a plaything
          held casually
               in her palm,
to be discarded
when distracted
with no afterthought,
or guilt,
or regret.

Edda is good to me:
even in her demands
I find a comfortable niche
for my soul.
She wants thirty poems
when she returns,
just so she’ll know
I gave her thought
at least once a day
all through the month
while she was gone.