Charlotte McCaffrey


In that first junkie-rush
of could-be love
that I will
keep coming back for,

her eyes fix on mine
and she gives me
such a heat job,
I think we might,
we almost do,
but then she says
Not yet.

So I climb into my car,
turn the radio up,
some of those
loose-hipped boys
playing their high-strung guitars.
Fast licks and bass.
I ride them
all the way home.


At first, it was as bad as love.
A full time occupation.
Desire twisting the spinal system.
Blood pooling at the source.
The obsessive groan of appetite.

Later, every night turned
into a little winter.
Sex, when we had it,
was a hard green apple
for the famished.