Sex and Taxes

By Kevin Cantwell

       Plum black & the blush white of an apple

shoulder, melon & cream, in tones to list

       the flesh; in light, washed colors off at last

& textures sheer with damp I slowly pull

       from you with your quick help. Weekend's ample

procrastinations to forget the least

       of what we want to do. April, half a blast

of cold, half new light, green & simple.

       Now dusk. Now fear. We pencil what we owe

on this short form, our numbers good enough.

       The goose-neck glare undoes how we spent the day.

Each bite each bee-sting kiss each bitten O

       all aftertaste. Later, at the drop-off,

       postmark queue, we joke: "Now we can die!"

[ This poem originally appeared in the April 1999 issue of Poetry. ]


~ Source: Poetry Foundation ~