Ode to Helga
No, I am not one of those men who falls in love with another man’s wife, not even your lovely wife, Helga, and all the lovely parts of Helga, and I don’t just mean her flame red hair, her perfect breasts, exposed so nicely in that transparent silk blouse, or her full legs in black pantyhose, or her buttocks as round as two sugar-melons side by side, or that little mole at the base of her spine and the other one on the inside of her left thigh
or that little gap between her teeth I see when she opens her mouth, or those words that fly off her tongue like birds, and the ones she swallows back and does not speak, those tiny words, those ah’s and oh’s, and the pauses and the soft no’s. So many no’s
she sighs, pretending to resist, and the I’m so tired’s when she turns her back before stretching out like a cat and saying Yes, oh yes! as she clings as if she’s drowning as she gasps for air and calls out, Oh God! God! God!! And He answers. He answers as only a god can.