RENA PRIEST


Quilt

My Lover says he feels ridiculous doing "it"
on the circus of plaids dressing our bed.


But for me they conjure the love madness
of clown's clothing flung off in naked passion,


flesh-toned to the neck, where virgin white greasepaint
is smeared by kisses, sloppy as overlarge shoes,


(You know that saying about a man's shoe size.)
But never mind that when there's hair the color of


lust and burning buildings, noses fire-truck red
and the playful romance of trick daisies.


Don't pretend you don't know why clowns crowd
into Volkswagen bugs, or what kind of party that is.


"How Can You Say I Don't Love You?"

"You don't." He said, opening the fridge.
She pulled down the top of her nightgown
and bared her breasts to him.
He poured a glass of juice,
Then took a drink.
They stood there smiling,
"I don't know how you can say that,"
she said. "You know, I don't show these
to just anyone
anymore."