A Lover In The Walls
"Tell me about sex."
Her voice was calm, passive
And withheld in her throat to give herself
The voluptuous bedroom tone she dreampt about
As a girl.
I couldn't see either of their faces
But by the sound of their voices
Sweet, tart, like a Jenny or a Jamie,
I drew them out with the etcha sketch
In my brain.
"When I was sixteen I used to tell my mom," the interviewee started,
"That I didn't know what sex was,
But I wanted to have it."
A low moan of girlish chuckles executed the air,
Like a soda bubble unexpectedly
Coming through a little lady's throat.
The interviewing woman, embarrassed, covered her lips
With the tips of her fingers,
Or so I imagined her to do, without actually seeing her face.
I placed my pen in the spine of my journal,
Pivoted my left ear toward the arch
Where a door used to close when the Willow House
Was in fact, a house
And listened more intentively to the two women.
The interviewee, 35 and single.
I gathered that from the rapid movement of her tongue
When she spoke of sex.
"Perhaps memories", I thought.
She speaks like she has taken many lovers,
Some even in dangerous places,
Maybe some where I was seated,
Maybe not.
Both actresses and good at it
Asking and responding to one another
As if they were reading seperate monologues
That pertained to the same subject.
The interviewer, a little harder to depict,
Spoke like a Jenny or a Jamie,
But lived like a Jane.
She was curious about her interviewee,
Or about the many lovers she had taken.
This Jane wanted to hear the poetry
Of her interviewee's adjectives on sex,
The names of the men, the places they passioned,
The weather, and of course
The brand of cigarettes they smoked after
The taste of pasty saliva had become routine.
This Jane wanted wild hair.
Instead she smoothed over
Her already smooth hair and continued
On with the less arrousing questions,
Still keeping in tact that low bedroom tone
As to maybe plant a seed of curiosity in the interviewee
About her own sex life,
Or the one This Jane wanted to have.
As The questions became less interesting,
So my attention to their interview did also.
Continuing to hear their voices inside the wall,
I stood, messed up my hair and turned the corner to see them.
They glanced my direction, now on the subject of beauty,
The interviewer smiled at me, she was a Jane,
She then looked at my bedroom hair,
Maybe wondering if I had left a lover of my own
Inside the walls,
To have in dangerous places such as this.
I smiled back with the intuition of her thought.
I wiped the corner of my lips with my ring finger,
Looked downward to the old, painted hard wood floors
And shuffled out.
Her voice was calm, passive
And withheld in her throat to give herself
The voluptuous bedroom tone she dreampt about
As a girl.
I couldn't see either of their faces
But by the sound of their voices
Sweet, tart, like a Jenny or a Jamie,
I drew them out with the etcha sketch
In my brain.
"When I was sixteen I used to tell my mom," the interviewee started,
"That I didn't know what sex was,
But I wanted to have it."
A low moan of girlish chuckles executed the air,
Like a soda bubble unexpectedly
Coming through a little lady's throat.
The interviewing woman, embarrassed, covered her lips
With the tips of her fingers,
Or so I imagined her to do, without actually seeing her face.
I placed my pen in the spine of my journal,
Pivoted my left ear toward the arch
Where a door used to close when the Willow House
Was in fact, a house
And listened more intentively to the two women.
The interviewee, 35 and single.
I gathered that from the rapid movement of her tongue
When she spoke of sex.
"Perhaps memories", I thought.
She speaks like she has taken many lovers,
Some even in dangerous places,
Maybe some where I was seated,
Maybe not.
Both actresses and good at it
Asking and responding to one another
As if they were reading seperate monologues
That pertained to the same subject.
The interviewer, a little harder to depict,
Spoke like a Jenny or a Jamie,
But lived like a Jane.
She was curious about her interviewee,
Or about the many lovers she had taken.
This Jane wanted to hear the poetry
Of her interviewee's adjectives on sex,
The names of the men, the places they passioned,
The weather, and of course
The brand of cigarettes they smoked after
The taste of pasty saliva had become routine.
This Jane wanted wild hair.
Instead she smoothed over
Her already smooth hair and continued
On with the less arrousing questions,
Still keeping in tact that low bedroom tone
As to maybe plant a seed of curiosity in the interviewee
About her own sex life,
Or the one This Jane wanted to have.
As The questions became less interesting,
So my attention to their interview did also.
Continuing to hear their voices inside the wall,
I stood, messed up my hair and turned the corner to see them.
They glanced my direction, now on the subject of beauty,
The interviewer smiled at me, she was a Jane,
She then looked at my bedroom hair,
Maybe wondering if I had left a lover of my own
Inside the walls,
To have in dangerous places such as this.
I smiled back with the intuition of her thought.
I wiped the corner of my lips with my ring finger,
Looked downward to the old, painted hard wood floors
And shuffled out.