I often sit and wonder
I wonder about the other woman.
Do her lips curve like ocean waves?
Does her face break into a mischievous smile
while you tingle a secret patch of skin?
Do her eyelashes palm sunlight
while you plant a soft salty kiss
pickled and bottled and displayed for all?
And her hair
does it catch the wind
as do the black wings of a raptor
Swoop, swoop, swooping for the kill?
She sings too, I hear.
Ah! Green is her youth.
so greened by perfection
is her voice which rises and falls
like the ribcage of an unbruised baby.
So perfect her voice
which rises and falls
like screams aboard a crash
beyond repair beyond hope beyond control
And I wonder
I wonder about her scarf;
the silk one
I wonder if it slithers around her neck—
almost to the point of crushing the hollow of her delicate throat.
Yes, I wonder often,
much too often,
about the other woman.