Coniferous Conversation

“Excuse me while I die,” I sigh.

“I will not!” you scream. “I’ve no place to go.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes are blue and green. We shuffle our feet in a need to flee (WHERE?).

“Then stay,” I say.

And you fold your arms in front of your breasts, wishing that there was something more substantial there to support your determined look.

“Maybe it’s me?” you plea.

And I shift the weight from my right leg to my wrong, thinking.

“Why the hell are we standing here like this?”

I begin to lean toward the other room with its cushioned couches and fireplace.

“You liked me before,” you implore.

“And I like you still,” I croak, with a pinecone in my throat.
“Why, I love your body. That’s a great dress. You’re… beautiful.
Didn’t I tell you before?”

“Well, yeah,” you relax. “I figured you were just saying it…”

“No. It’s true.”

“Then what’s this about?”

“It’s not about that.”

I grab your hand and we walk to the couch where we sit on the edge of the cushions; neither staying nor going. I kiss the back of your neck (you’re wearing a ring of gold in your ear) and gently cup your right breast in my left hand. You tilt your head and sigh, holding my hand still.

“I don’t want to wrinkle the dress,” you press.

“Nor I, to die,” I confess.

March 1984

“Coniferous Conversation” appeared in the Best New Poets of 1988, edited by John Frost, published by the American Poetry Association, 1989. It also appears in From These Words (poetry 1973-1988) available for download on this site.