my last love-letter to mrs. robinson
                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                to tell the tale
                of your wedding
                would work like this:

                i see you walking,
                besmiled,
                besatined,
                bewedded,
                before me.

                i am in the ninth pew back
                grasping some catholic girl's hand
                and seeping my mascara
                while you light candles
                we never lit
                and timidly kiss this guy i tower over
                when i
                wear those heels you like.

                a long drive to some
                cheapening hotel,
                all the while thinking about
                how
                i'll never taste the
                sweat from your shoulderblades
                again and
                i lick my lipstick again and i
                lick my lipstick again and i lick
                my lipstick again

                until i have to reapply it.

                into the fountained lobby
                go i

                strolling sideways slanting
                to show my hips to all
                our exes
                with bright gleaming eyes
                and a waist so small
                even the wives bite their thumbs
                at me

                after dinner is over
                and i have daintily scavenged
                my food and hungrily sipped
                my champagne,
                we younguns take over the floor
                with the energy of fucking
                whip our hair about
                to music we can't remember
                to the bewilderment of all those
                who
                can.

                an hour of this
                it passes
                and
                an hour of that
                it passes
                and

                you are really married now,
                missus

                (you are not my friend
                who i've
                laid with time and night again
                on a futon in the bluedark
                sucking liquor sucking face
                watching tv
                or

                not.)

                yet
                you are only a few feet away
                when

                our
                song

                comes on
                                [and no one has this,
                come on]

                you must have brought it
                yourself

                and suddenly my eyes
                have never moved so fast
                as they do running on small rabbit's feet
                around the room for you
                finding you still

                besmiled
                besatined
                beside me

                as
                we move on to the floor
                you reach over and
                squeeze my dry-boned hand

                then drop it,
                gently,

                because i know who you are
                now
                and no one else can know who you were
                then

                and
                something small whispers a quiet death.

                we dance

                two


                                feet


                                                        apart


                until crazy janey
                says it's time to go
                and i abandon you to a
                new way of living without me.

                song after song plays
                and
                though i am not alone
                i wonder what i am doing here

                watching you leave

                **


                five hours later
                i am hot and bothered

                hair tangled
                and missing my clothes.

                'it must be genetic'
                i think

                as i recover on my back

                while your brother
                rolls over to put his shirt on.

                there is a
                quick four a.m. knocknocknock
                at the door

                and i answer
                -you-
                in a towel.

                you pull me into the hall,
                violently your hand on my back
                your lips crushed to mine,
                your tongue seeking reason
                when all i have is heart

                then you are gone
                before a goodbye escapes my lungs.

                your brother reopens the door,
                says,
                "who was that?"

                and i drop my towel in the middle of the hallway
                before pushing my naked body against him
                and forcing your face to mine
                again,

                taking some tongue that has pieces of you
                inside it inside me and inside me
                rushing your blood inside me
                again and again

                **

                when he closes the door behind us,
                i make fierce love to your body


                though you are elsewhere
                down a hall:




                bewedded

                and

                bereft.







-- Meredyth Smith