Thursday, November 5, 2015

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Arizona

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

he would never kick
it completely off his boots,
the dust of Arizona, heavy
and unrelenting, it would
cling to the angled heels.
So, why was he here
at the place of the one
woman he’d left
months ago? She
never opened the door
or happily greeted him when
he finally stepped inside.
He teased her with a few,
short sentences, kissed
the air, not her, and took
her there on her couch.
The last wasn’t planned.
Her whining had driven
him mad until he gave in,
gave her what she thought
she wanted from him without
permitting those claws
of hers to dig deep into
his skin so she could
continue to hold him
in a life he didn't want.

He couldn’t finish.
He didn't really
want to fuck her and
she did nothing but
lay on her back and
let him push his naked
flesh against hers
with no moans or
loving cries to encourage
him to complete the act—
that’s all it was with her.
He sat up to regain
his breath and, thick-
tongued, cotton mouthed,
and choking, was
immediately sorry
since the smell from
her nether region
brought to his mind
that day he spent
near the Pacific and
the odor from a seafood deli–
dried tuna and sour cheese.
It left his cock drenched
in the nauseating
stench of dill pickles.
Complaints and tears,
arguments and words
meant to belittle him;
the reason to leave
came back to him.
He knew where he
was his happiest.

She hated that place,
and his unconscious
whispers with her name,
and the smell of tequila
worms on his breath,
and that twitch with her
behind his crooked smile.
He may as well have
been in the desert with
his tanned bitch for
all the good her tears
had done, drying up
before they reached him.
He’d be sorry, she
had warned. He’d pay
for leaving her again.

She knew he was
fleeing her again to escape;
heading back to Mexico
he said; she knew that
State of Arizona
tugged on his big toes.
She knew she’d never
get her hooks into him.
When she wailed, he
said, “Shut up,” for one
last fuck. She did,
and prayed he’d come
back to her, or, at
least, think of her yet
she knew he’d never as
long as he had her and

She hated Arizona
and the woman who
ran naked through the
desert with him while
the sun burned his
northern white ass.
The leather divan was
cold, but his words
as he left were
colder. He said
“I don’t want you,”
and walked out, his
big toe twitching,
his dusty boots back
on his wandering feet,
and Arizona waiting
with its scorpion
sting left in her heart.

Arizona never
made him stay if he
wanted to go. He knew
that. And the woman
waiting for him there
would have changed
the sheets on her bed
and would turn her
book over with the
page left open because
she would stop reading
when he knocked on
her adobe home’s door.
He who never stayed
longer than a few months
but never truly left her...
He’d smile when she
welcomed him back with
a knowing grin, a few
kind words, and a naked
embrace he’d never forget
and never want to leave.
Arizona was the lucky one.

(She Is His - mixed media on canvas board)


  1. ...much lacking in her personal hygiene; no wonder he couldn't make it

    ...,otherwise, a compelling write - well done :)

    1. thank you, and yes, personal hygiene was bad as well as her biting personality...