There were those times
when Leonard Cohen and I
would sit together on a Sunday evening by the fire
and swoon to each other over a glass of shiraz.
He would to speak to me in flickering words
He spoke of the lovers in the house knowing only of each other.
(a voyeur to this old encounter)
begin to cry.
It’s no longer him speaking to me.
under the covers
late at night
in our bed
before the light comes up before the alarm goes off before the cat bites at your toes and runs circles round your head
You take me there to Cohen’s room,
to his lovers,
to his lips.
And kissing you feels just as sweet,
the bitter sweat on your ivory skin.
Until the wine is sipped .
All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy