Dreams of Avenging the Dogs

You and I thigh deep in Suwannee River then in a bathtub. Spanish moss clogs
the drain and a man carrying a green towel interrupts. We send him away once
more knowing he'll return to watch. We're photographers shooting on location
for Sylvia Plath's upcoming book, Savage Beauty—wrong poet or wrong book,
I know, depending on how you look at it—however, I'm the one who is white
this time, you're darker, maybe Quechua Indian or Spanish, like actor Antonio
Banderas, with very defined stomach muscles and a slick throb of a penis.

Years later I write a book about our affair. They bring me on one of those
daytime talk shows, and before being reunited, we are kept in separate rooms, the
television split screen, green-towel man in the audience. I'm still white, so are you,
both of us middle-aged with freckles and strawberry-blonde hair. Later I'm the
viewer at home thinking, Like hell they'll fall for each other.