Neon Light

shannonkringenI smile at her,

using a softer tone.

She brushes by

leaving a hint of perfume.

Black hair wrapped

constricted in chords –

A wild sight when

free and tossed

in a dark room

with a neon light

seeping through

drawn shades.

The black hair would loosen

when she pulls her sweater

over her face revealing a red

satin bra her husband has not seen.

She would release

her locks, shaking them free

while slipping

from her hugged jeans,

(the ones she loves because

they remember a younger form).

She will not have lights –

not when she needs her eyes to be open

to remember

the grasping embrace,

the kiss that will push

her through the long

silent morning commutes,

longer nights of empty sheets.

She is a new road;

the curves, direction,

speed, length is hers;

the scenery is mine.

I savor her attention

knowing how roads

and women are never forgotten

after the fear

of the first drive.

She dances madly

until I feel

her pulling back

to the world;

then I lose my hands

in her hair finding  

her neck with lips,

hearing her hum.

The spell of a cheap room’s darkness,   

a longing newness is broken with morning.

So I learn her smells,

the way her tongue dances,

how she kisses in open mouthed

melodious operas.

I rise to remember.

She descends to forget.

The cars pass

the motel’s neon light

on a wet road

where I’ll be two hours from now;

her perfume lingering on my skin.

Comments

[steele fields]

Oh my ...does your wife know?

All kidding aside, I really like this. The sweet familiarity mingling with the fresh discovery is touching (no pun) in it's honesty. The reverent tone of the piece is a testimony of your love for her, and your quest to understand what makes her tick it belies a deep appreciation and respect for women in general. It is a recurrent theme in your poetry. You write about women the way Vermeer painted them: gently rendered and softly lit.
Regards,
Steele

[James Dugan]

I am not sure if the narrator was even married. Did you get that in there? I wanted the narrator to be more like an object of need, like the motel room, like the neon light and darkness, like the jeans and experience.

It was actually my small expression for National Women's Day -- that was the red satin bra and perfume vs. the agressive nature; the mix of the shame of being natural against society's will (her husband's). I leave all victims out like children or morals -- I hope.

I pass many motels -- I love how they keep secrets and are places where secrets are made. They are mysterious, dangerous and right beside our busy lives. In the same way they work with women as more covert than men, who seem to be open in their longing and predictable in their actions.

I appreciate your read and feedback, Steele, your poetry is one I strongly admire.