The Sibilant, and: Horse

The Sibilant

We had the Latin of the waves at night.We had the vernacular of tears.We had the alternate ending, plan B,in which we stayed together. We hadplan A, in which we would part.

We had the letters I have burned,in which you spoke of our past lifeas married, in a forest, on bicycles,the trees angry seraphim, and darknesscoming. We had this now, not that.

We had that once, now this.The sun was neither rising nor setting.Our kisses plosives. The sex, the one time,is sibilant: shh, before you cross the roomin a nightgown, the knock at the door.

Horse

You called for H, or Horse, and you knew many then who did. Chantelle did it when she waited tables, leaving part of her by the ice machine, smoking cigarettes, while another part was bending over a stranger, flattening the tablecloth, setting down a plate of food. Charlie drank no alcohol, but he did it through the eye. At forty the eye was terrible. He lifted the needle to his face. I watched him once. As if a metal clasp for false eyelashes. And you came back to it years later, calling for the Horse. It never asked you, in its black blinders and its hood. You leapt on its back as the rider.