My mistress is a feverish lie

carved from vinyl shower curtains,

displayed over cups of tea,

selling scandal at your pastor's bake sale.

-

My shame, a bloated belly,

stomach growing with each half cup

of spite and ground-chuck beef,

ravaging esophagus, burning

the space under sternum's deep vein.

-

My inn-keepers write me daily,

sending photos of unmade beds,

unread Gideon bibles,

housekeepers working the graveyard

kissing busboys on the ice machine.

-

My lost cousins sing Country-Western

with slide guitar, Summer day bourbon,

because one scared woman dared to leave

her father's sacred fields.

-

My cheeks are healed by satin stroke,

loosening locks, seducing combinations

of jazz piano, a buzzing microphone.

-

My pillows carry pirate ships,

captained by bearded biceps,

scarring eyelids with unknown travels

that bloody T-shirt collars.

-

My shoulders hold the secrets

to campfire romances, stockpiled embers,

autographed to cocktail napkins,

where her name is washed away.

-

My righteous howl lifts my knees

cracks rheumatoid knuckles,

tearing plaid from the button strings,

this is where my heart resides.