Black Leather or …

black leather or Lament of a Modern Mistress

I mark you
with stripes like war paint
on a paling vacation-sun freckled back,
lightly the leather dances
to the tune of your breathing.
You moan with a warm pleasure
that precipitates
a weary fulfillment,
but I am far away.
I am thinking of the twisted backs
of Chilean political prisoners,
of Pinochet's Martyrs,
ghosts haunting my world.
I am thinking of their scars,
old like memories,
tougher than leather
not these supple strips I hold,
but harder and unforgiving;
and I think of the unseen bonds
that tie survivors to their torturers,
refugees to their countries,
and you to me.
This is what I think of with each blow,
mentally composing protest letters,
for Amnesty International
while you grunt and spill
on my new carpeting.
I am not the things I do
when you appear at my door,
every Tuesday night, regular,
like your dental checkups or your annual cardiogram,
though all you see is
black leather.