So tell me dear Judas, what is it to be the traitor.

To offer up meaningless kisses so false and so lovingly

as if you meant any of it, and all in your contrived effort

to get to the mid-point of the white-hot center of that fire

that burns all about us, fierce passion

of which you would never know the likes.

You and your suburban haircut and your

go-away give-away husband, your almost empty-nest.

You spin circles, a robin, all despair and mid-life heat.

So pathetic: I would pity you were it not for the false

friendship you offered in some vain effort contrived

to get to him to go through me. You sidled up, so cozy,

so falsely close and took me as your friend, always with questions

knowing Knowledge is Power and Goethe turned in his grave.

You asked me Does he love you, and I told you, Yes, because he did.

You asked, How did we make love? and me, well, I told you,

trustingly, young. I made my way across town, through the rush

of the hour and to his high-high room in my grey Prada skirt

and my black Prada heels and he would peel each thing off;

the white lace La Perla, revealing the milky white globe

of each breast tipped with pink buds, they bloomed only for him

He took them in, greedily, hungrily.

Three times a day he would come to me and come.

And three times each day I would take him.

Such things he would do:

You never would nor will ever know,

no matter what he had said or now says.

He would bite, grab, taste, suckle and suck

nibble, and lick, tasting and taking each singular

part of me, my long limbs outspread & tied with the white

Hermes scarves he insisted I bring (and I did).

He spelled the alphabet with his tongue,

a je t’aime and toujours and he meant it.

So what of you now? Do you think he loves you

the way he had loved and loves me? The way

he could never stand to be in the same room as I

because the temptation of it would be too much.

Did he tell you about this? Old witch,

Judas bitch; give up the old ghosts.