**Tick**


The persistent tick of the glow-in-the-dark
clock on the nightstand had penetrated her sleep
and she lay still, eyes open to the dark unfamiliar.
Each mechanical pulse jabbed her consciousness as
panic began to tingle through her no longer euphoric senses.
The pillow was damp. Her cheek pressed against it.
She sensed the night drifting down on her
from a window somewhere up above the bed.


Turning toward the wall as she shifted to her side
she felt her wet thighs slide against one other,
and she felt the hand that had rested on her stomach
slide off, fingers brushing against the small of the back.
For a moment she let herself shiver with the thought
of the texture of that hand as it had discovered
the measure of her appetite earlier that evening.
She pushed the thought away and listened.
The clock ticked its rhythm and now her heart kept pace.
Her chest tightened, as she become painfully aware
of the process of breathing in and out.


He moved in his sleep.
The mixture of their perfume permeated the room.
They met on Monday.
Coming back the next day with two cups of coffee
he asked if he could share her bench.
Tonight . . . had been Friday;
quickly swept away into the morning,
the flood beginning with a kiss spiced with the salt of margaritas
and a hand slipped between her legs.
He offered a casual smile;
no pretending where this was. . . or was not going.
Easily she opened her legs ever so slightly
and he ran his hand along her jeans,
a little foreplay under the cocktail table.
Abstinence came with only one round of cordials.


Slow-handed man sleeps beside her;
so hard to keep the mind sane with a slow-hand.
Staring at the clock she floats back
to each article of clothes sailing to the floor,
each initial touch,
and each kiss choreographed in passion play.
Fantasies suckled and driven wild.
The night suckled and driven hard;
the tattooed dragons battling on his chest,
drinking beads of sweat held in the dragon's claws,
as she quivered and arched . . .
as breathing succumbs . . .
as breathing ceases. . ..
as now sleep awakes. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick;
her eyes steady on the clock she slips out of bed into her panic.


Four in the morning.
Finding the keys to her car,
she’s glad she insisted on following.
All the way home . . . all the way home
she feels the numbness settling in,
rising and catching in her throat.
And he . . . he hears her silence even before she turns the key
and follows her footsteps to his bedroom door.
Gripping the bar, its cold metal jars her flesh.
She bends over him to leave a kiss on the forehead;
she lingers a little longer, lips seeking his forgiveness.
Tears begin. Tears for yesterday, today, tomorrow
. . . . . tears for tomorrow
. . . . . so many tears for tomorrow.
Quietly she drops the bar to the side of bed.
She undresses and lays down beside him.
He can smell the night in her hair.


jeanne rene 6/04