Sherrie WELLER

ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
CAUSED BY PROCRASTINATION: THERE IS
A CHOICE

Step away from the edge. Do not jump.
Entertain the rogue.
Pour yourself a scotch.
For your guest, a dry martini.

Things will proceed this way:

He will ask you where you're from and you'll tell him
left of third base. He will rest his hand on your knee, look you straight in the eye, light your cigarette with a silver zippo.
Snap it shut.

You will say Thank you, breathily, leaning in.

Not meaning to, you trip and fall through green
tunnels in eyelashes, land on blood vessels, cells
of him. He will stand up, run his fingers up the curve
of your arm, ask you to dance. Make you wet.
(Turn, twirl, move closer.)

You are lost now.

He will run his tongue over the whole of you,
slip between veins and breath. You won't know
if you are asleep or awake.

You reciprocate, readily.

At dawn, find yourself on
silk sheets, a film of ripeness in memory.
You smile, glad for the taste of it.
(You don't stand a chance.)

The next day, you will meet him again.

This time, he
comes too soon,
leaves you with mango sighs
stuck in your throat. Frustrated,
you turn to your vibrator, but
will return to him tomorrow,

just because.

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