Sunday, December 13, 2020

Aubade by Major Jackson


 After R.W.

You could be home boiling a pot
of tea as you sit on your terrace,
reading up on last night’s soccer shot
beneath a scarf of cirrus.
You could be diving headlong
into the waves of Cocoa Beach
or teaching Mao Tse-tung
whose theories are easy to reach
or dropping off your dry cleaning,
making the New Americans wealthier,
or mowing your lawn, greening
up, but isn’t this healthier?
Just imagine the hours you’re
not squandering away,
or the antlike minutes frittered
with a tentative fiancé.
Your whole body agrees you’d
rather lie here like a snail
in my arm’s crook, nude
and oblivious of all e-mails.
Yes, it’s nearly one o’clock,
but we have more reasons
to kiss, to engage in small talk.
For one, these blissful seasons
are short, & tomorrow is never
insured, so bounce downstairs:
pour us glasses of whatever,
a tray of crackers, Bosc pears,
then let drop your sarong,
the wind high on your skin,
so we can test all day long
the notion of original sin.

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