And now honeysuckle’s aroma, thick
as syrup, fills my nostrils like the breath
of my old lover on that night her slick
frame poured over me, just before her death,
her bourbon-coated whisper pleading first
for pain, then caress, then pain again, as
if she hoped for all before the end. Nursed
too long by my soft words, she cursed our last
lovemaking, the honeysuckle bouquet
I had brought to make peace. Neither of us
knew. Drunk, angry, again I lost my way:
A right sent her off the bed; her head just
missed the wrought-iron chair. She dressed, slammed the door.
The cop’s call left me crying on the floor.
Roger Armbrust
April 24, 2007
