On Sunday Morning Poem by Matt Mullins

We kiss to flamenco
on your kitchen radio

your eyes open
my eyes watching yours.

We've been talking about tribes
with your hair

still carrying the weight
of last night's smoke

and scented oil
as I shrug on the skin of a beast

you refuse to eat
and let myself out into the day.

Last night when you shot
pool beneath a cone of light

your long lines unfurling
as you leaned across the table

I knew we wouldn't make love
on your floor

but along the wall
I saw more than you

dark and quiet though not quite
still, a shadow waiting to pounce

on chanting natives moving
quickly, covered with clay.