(Three Little Words) for F.B.
M has never said I love you before.
Not to me.
He cries at weddings, like a girl.
The sex is only good if we’re totally fucked up.
It blurs how wrong we are for each other.
English is not M’s native tongue. It eludes him.
Maybe he misspoke?
His prepositions hang mid-air.
He says it’s hard to think when it’s hard.
M’s white teeth nibble at my clit like a ferret.
The two front ones indent slightly;
it makes him look goofy, like a joke.
Sometimes when we have sex, M’s calico meow trips
across my back. Rakes a claw. Caterwauls.
She doesn’t want me here.
Sometimes when we have sex, I am the one in heat.
Outside, the tin roof rain suicides
on the hard-packed earth.
M is fucking me from behind, his
body melded into my ass, fingers kneading my breasts.
He’s mumbling up the courage.
I know what he’s trying to say.
I want to fuck him mute.
In the bedroom there’s this
Dennis Hopper photo of Tuesday Weld,
driving, top down, blonde hair streaming.
Circa 1968. She’s unfettered.
Why can’t he see that
I am that girl, my top down,
my hair streaming,
my consequence-less life?
M. bought the print for me but
I don’t want it.
I want nothing from him but
a silent film, a carnival.
I want him to want that, too.
I want him to shut up but
he zeros in on my ear
and says it.
1. TONIGHT I DREAM OF MY SECOND EX-HUSBAND WHO PLAYED PIANO BETTER THAN HERBIE HAND-COCK.
Naked and unperturbed, hard-on the size of an Eagle Scout’s flashlight, he watches me sleep, standing at my bedside like he still lives here. Framed drawings of me, 17 and naked, hang like cautionary muses above my bed. His eyes devour them like that sweet girl still exists. Like he didn’t grind her into extinction with each lie, each humiliating indiscretion. In this dream he’s twenty-five, and almost sure he loves me. And then he’s thirty. And then he’s gone. But right now he’s tonguing me from behind, (that drawing of me on all fours), my labia symmetrical, curving against my inner thighs like geometry. He fingers his cock. He looks like Wesley Snipes in Blade. He pinches my left nipple; his practiced mouth seeking out my complicity. Why does the fantasy always best real life? My second ex-husband sits on the edge of my dream, smoothes the hair from my forehead with his piano-widened hands. When his fingers dance arpeggios on my face it feels like foreplay. When I reach for the dildo on the nightstand, it starts itself.
2. TONIGHT I DREAM OF MY LAST MEAL WITH MY FIRST EX-HUSBAND WHO WAS BOTH FICKLE AND BENT.
There was yet another threesome on the menu. Him, the platinum divorcée from next door, and that TV actress who followed me home. A triple-decker; blonde on blonde on blonde. Hold the mayo. I knew they’d hit it off. Like replacement china. Each of them chipped someplace marginal. I admit to damaged, self-besotted, brunette. When I married him I thought: I will divorce you in a year. What was he thinking? He used to tie me to the bed posts – the only way he could get off. I didn’t mind. He hated that. When the shenanigans paled, and his money ran out, I wanted out. Was that when he decided to keep me, and the TV actress, and the platinum blonde? Never could make up his mind. His dick (did I mention?) was slanted to the left, like his politics. A girl could get addicted to that bit of kink.
I’D NEVER SLEPT WITH A MEXICAN BEFORE. HE WOULD ONLY DO IT IN THE DARK
ON THE ROAD
I had a knife with me that day,
I don’t know why.
We just started driving upstate.
When I asked where we were going
he said, “Coffee.”
He was too short for me anyway.
In my dream there was poison in the coffee.
It tasted sweet. I didn’t seem to mind.
IN THE DINER
There were miles between us,
“It’s okay to smoke,” he said.
“As long as you’re not a train.”
When he reached for my hands
I saw tattooed saints on his wrists
where the long sleeves shortened.
He let go like he’d been burned.
Folded. A barricade. A moat.
I fondled the knife in my purse
till he caught my eye.
“Keep ‘em where I can see ‘em.”
I could live with that.
IN THE MOTEL
We danced in the open space
between the queen bed and the door.
He sweated through his button down,
a silver crucifix at his throat;
looked like Marc Anthony
in the motel marquee’s light.
Free Cable. Free Ice. No Vacancy.
He kicked off his pants, turned out the light.
Fucked me with his shirt on.
IN THE MORNING
I surprised him in the shower,
saw his tattooed glory, sleeves,
the American eagle
full-winged across his chest,
“Semper Fi” emblazoned on a
ribbon in its mouth.
I threw the knife out the window
once the car passed Santa Barbara.
“The road is the journey,” he said,
the sin of regret in his eyes.
the cool wind comes through me
outside, it’s winter.
your life calls.
your wife calls.
you want to sail away.
travel instead my aestival coastline,
my perfect breasts
sloped like berms in December.
brave the Bermuda Triangle
of my hips
and my belly,
the delectable delta
between my thighs;
plunder those places
your wife won’t
let you go.
desire rules our ocean.
your body echoes my
if she loved you as I do,
you wouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t taste like you.
Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of “How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and Other Heart Stab Poems”, published last year by Sybaritic Press. Her erotic poems have been featured in over 70 journals and lit magazines, including Australia’s Little Raven, San Francisco’s Red Light Lit, Slipstream, Cliterature, BoySlut, Menacing Hedge, and Gutter Eloquence. Since 2013 Alexis has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and a Best of The Net award. She’s infamous for her recent Lit Crawl LA performance at Romantix,a NoHo sex shop. In her other life, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly and photography editor of Fine Linen Magazine.
“Three Little Words” originally published in Cactus Heart
“Tonight I Dream of My Last Meal With My First Ex-Husband” and “Tonight I Dream of My Second Ex-Husband” originally published in Menacing Hedge
“I’d Never Slept With A Mexican Before…” originally published in Chiron Review
“The Cool Wind Came Through Me Like Jamaica” originally published in Ragazine
Author Image: Alexis Rhone Fancher