Companion Anti/Love Poems

Angel

This is true.  That she rises in the morning
with your name in her breath, the memory

of your fingers in her hair.  That she kisses
the side of your face without reflection,

gasps to be caught in your search-light gaze.
Because you are the harbor in rough seas,

the space station for her crippled shuttle,
the little rescue buoy deftly hurled into

the flailing chop.  Because you made him
coffee, placed warm hands on his cold neck.


Devil

This is true.  That she rises in the morning
with something rank on her breath, and

the memory of your hands on her hips leaves
a burn, as if by acid.  She hates her reflection,

lingers in doorways, in closets to avoid your
eyes.  You are the sea that rocks her, and

the sickness that overcomes her, the faulty
tile that would destroy her on reentry.

You are not a buoy.  The buoy was stolen by
the teenage boy whose hands are on her thigh.