Berlin

piano bench black on the far wall
white room
a woman
naked woman on
the floor
crimson flower at her
feet
black stem

in berlin
on the wet film
of a cobblestone street after a storm
snipers
the black lines of political posters
and snipers
on the running rooftops
men in uniforms
stalking shadows
chasing patches of black
against the steel sky

you were saying it
was impossible
I traced the outline
of my napkin
a cafe
conversation
I was taking your photograph
in black & white against your will
I pinned
you with my hips

you were saying it was impossible
and yet I stood alone in the middle
of the street
and no one screamed
no shots came
and though you had predicted death
had maybe
wished death as evidence
the consequence
instead was tapping on your shoulder

you
were saying --
but I did not let you finish --
thrusting my tongue to the back of your throat
slashing your words

in berlin
boot
heels clicked on the shingles
I opened my
eyes
catching sight of the thick black lines
another
kind of sound
cartridges
and I pressed mouth
tighter to yours
metal edges feeling
the blast from the rooftop

in berlin
you
jerked
the sound piercing you in slow motion
your teeth reacting by sinking into my
lower lip
glistening red and swollen

in berlin
you said it was impossible
you promised death
I took your photograph
a woman in a white room
a crimson
flower
black stem at her feet

Published: Conditions, Fall 1986, New York, New York; Abraxas, December 1986, Madison, Wisconsin.