Badly.

Badly

by james bezerra

I don’t know why

I couldn’t ever

not want you,

because I wanted

so badly not to.

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.
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That Tattoo.

That Tattoo

by james bezerra

I loved you,

but also

– and separately –

your skirts

and that tattoo.

I loved you

as unconditionally as I could,

but I am not an unscarred man.

The skirts though

and your tattoo

I still love without condition.

Thorns of ink across

rising slope

from bottom of ribs down to hip

and the glide of my hand

over dark roses

in your skin.

I loved you

in bed on my right

falling asleep on my arm

your ink side up and

I’d pull slick sheets away

just to see your body

soft in the little light

white in the little light

your back and

my thumb slowly down the

notches of your spine

and your

tattoo like

vines, like veins,

like the outward sign of

something dark within you,

the tattoo

I loved

probably more forgivingly

than I loved you.

.

.

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How I Saw You Seeing Me.

How I Saw You Seeing Me

by james bezerra

I wanted you

to see in me

the sort of

future I wanted

from you.

.

.

.

All Apologies.

All Apologies

by james bezerra

Often I wonder

how to apologize

to the women

unlucky enough

to be written about

by me.

.

.

.

Jay.

Jay

by james bezerra

Once I traded VHS porn for

an old harmonica

with a guy who asked,

quite genuinely -

as we stepped over rust railroad tracks and

through shadow of rickety empty granary -

what it was like

to sleep with my girlfriend.

The porn was six hours long.

That guy moved to Texas.

I still have the harmonica.

.

.

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Call Center.

Call Center

by james bezerra

Before I knew better,

I thought full-time

in a half-cubicle

was a good job.

There I sat: headset,

going bald,

getting fat,

hungover.

I don’t know why I did

that.

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