PASSIONATA - Quentin James Reynolds Poems


Poems » quentin (james) reynolds » passionata


Clinches in the storeroom
between fifty pound bags of flour,
barrels of oil and lard;

latching onto her beside the pool table,
her hands are chalked blue.

I followed her into the ladies' room
and mauled her by the sink

among the lipsticked tissue
and snarls of hair,

a matchbook with raised letters --
Where the Elite Meet to Eat --

all but two matches torn out.

I took the cue to bite her neck.

She wore a lot of scarves back then,
turtlenecks, Elastoplast.

The Count, she called me.
Her husband was That Fatso.

                              It was weeks before she said yes.

                              I took her to the bird sanctuary and pressed
                              her hand against my fly. I’m going crazy, I said.

                              She kept tossing breadcrumbs,
                              her face bright red.

                              This duck waddled over and bit her
                              from behind.

                              She cried and jumped up, lifted her skirt.

                              The bill had left a green mark, some scarlet
                              spreading where I planted my mouth.

                              Two teenage boys said Get a room --

                              The geese moved in formation, heading south.


I reserved a room at the Mancanza;
registered us as Mr. and Mrs. Hart.

I arrived early and lowered the blinds,
washed up with a pink seashell.

She was a little unsteady, walking in.
I went to hug her and she shrugged me off,

flicked her fingers at the satin
lampshade and bedspread.

The Mancanza, she said, her lip curled.

She slid down the wall and closed her eyes:
I’ve never done this before.

Someone in the next room was yelling,
You always get the good underwear!

The room shook when traffic passed.
I righted the picture above the bed, and drew her beside me.

Two black pintos, rearing against an orange sky.