"Coffee with Roxie"

Young enough to be my granddaughter,
you bow your dark-haired head
over your latté and push the highlighted
strand back from your eyes as you
tell me, shyly and hesitant,
how you've decided to commit
to a relationship with Anne,
acknowledging your own identity at last
as well as your need for another. Details,
then, tumble over themselves as you move
quickly beyond the hard words of admission
into the swirling excitement of consequence --
styles of curtains and sheets, patterns
of breakfast china and couch upholstery,
towel colors and the arrangements of furniture --
all that new thingness of union,
and easier than the still-unfamiliar
and slippery terrain of the heart you struggle
to negotiate in words. Then you pause,
raise your head, and, your eyes pure light,
tell me how her presence makes you want
to tear her clothes off, throw her on the bed,
and make her come again and again
with your hands and mouth and body
until she begs you to stop before
she dies.

And old enough to be

your grandfather, I want to be young
and female and to wrap my arms and legs
around you and clasp you tight until I die
of your eyes' light.