In Mexico, everything will be different.
We will have a house on the edge of the desert,
a yard of hot dust, a rangey dog on a chain;
lizards will climb in the walls and one eagle
will turn and slowly turn in the blue expanse.
We will eat ’till we are full
and the meat juice runs down our chins;
I’ll put on a little weight
from fat-fried beans and corn
and it’ll suit me, my hips tilt a little wider.
In Mexico, I will pour milk from a blue jug,
pin flowers in my hair.
The heat will harden me.
I’ll wear boots with spurs, an icon of the Virgin,
ride pillion on your motorbike,
gamble with dice, smoke
and spit with a hoarse and grainy vigour.
I will smell that note of your sweat,
you will eye the shadows of my blouse, our eyes meet
and we will make love on the stone flags,
on the dirt of the yard, until dusk falls
and we lie with the salt stiffening
on cooling skin above hot blood
and the cicadas sing and sing until death.
poured warm into stockings, bustiers:
shimmy wriggle in, tug pull tuck in
snap clasp, slick schucked;
now they are vitrifed, shinyed,
basted all over under their clothes,
squeezed and smoothed solid,
they are ready.
The Furniture Game With Sylvia Plath
You’re late night champagne, the extra glass we shouldn’t have,
brittle stemmed; we all know you’re breakable.
You’re a lunar landscape of red and purple hills
where painters set up easels
and the crowds come with penny-tickets
to see the dead woman breathe.