tonight i want you;
i want to lure you and those let-me eyes
to the swirl of the blanket amid which
you have taken me so many times. i want
to swallow your kiss, to eat your moans
so i swell with you and with my longing. tonight
i want to dig the rolling fields of your back–
fuck finding china, i want to reach bone
and carve my full name there. your hands
know my hipbones and my lips know yours:
let us reacquaint them. let me pull you into me
as far as you’ll go, farther still– let me devour you
until i hold you whole and ubiquitous inside my skin.
i want to surround you and pull tight like the cords
on those lovely bags of crown, all that gold satin thread
and secrets. tattoo me with your teeth,
tell every tongue and fingertip that trespasses here:
this is my territory. i will be your continent to rule,
your raucous ocean, your mute and malleable earth
to till. i will be your lone tree, erect and proud
as the curious creature between your thighs.
tonight, i am calling out to you: here i am.
have me. i am waiting.
he must have registered a certain shock,
bemused, spent, gasping for strength
and clarity– not explanation,
for if anyone has seen the fruit of such sweet labor
surely it is a man himself, in the pale hours;
but even so, he must have been blindsided, and she–
before decorum, even, coarse and crying creature,
shuddering for each rank sweet breath over his shoulder
as if he propelled her lungs to their duty–
surely she believed herself to be dying,
writhing as she did upon all the white glows
the searing novelty, the quivering-thigh curiosities
(and somewhere in her pride of place at being first)–
though i will wager nothing so much shook her foundation
as her clawing hands, her tight legs,
her wordless mouth no less desperate
in its hunger, its precious rage, its succulent furor
its cry for more.
three hours later,
still stilled by sensation
creeping up the sides of my skin
to the undersides and down again,
worn to a smooth glow
by your battering hips,
warm from your hands
shaping pleasure from the frame
of my bones– weaving this weak-kneed
wanton on my osteo-loom,
i sit sleepy and silent against the bed
in the exact spot where you pushed
so much sweetness through
to my spine.
i am a shudder, a shiver
a shake syrupy with languor,
inspissating and indolent;
wrapped in waiting shadow
for the press of your palms,
i ache myself to sleep.
i am curled up on the sofa/
sinking my toes into the grass/
sprawled across the bed/
stretched out on the floor/
bending over to search the backseat
where you fucked me
and if i roll over to the proper angle/
stand in just the right spot/
press my face into the sheets/
turn my head just so/
drop a book in the perfect spot
i can still smell you here
as i nuzzle the red velvet/
shiver from the stroke of green blades/
snuggle beneath my comforter/
twist against the rough carpet
in search of a better position to lay in/
bump against my seatbelt,
i wonder if i am everywhere to you as well,
until i remember that you have never taken me inside your house.
sometimes i recall with a start
that i had seen him fuck before.
it was the first time i was ever pleasantly drunk
and we were sprawled across his bed,
myself, him, his girlfriend and my insecurity–
it folded itself between us so neatly–
and some words were exchanged and
before my tipsy self quite understood the plot of things
he was there, ripping at her clothes and she was squealing
she was screaming and then she was naked
and i lay beside them like an infant in school
rapt with drowsy-eyed voyeurism, stubborn, contrite
watching him batter her body
as though the only way he could give his love
was to beat it into things.
and because i understand the need to scar others
in order to be certain one’s love does not slide off,
i thought nothing of it
or of how close we were to his parents’ room
nor how strange it was for someone to yank my hesitant fingers over
to torture his girlfriend’s breast. she had flesh-colored nipples
and i liked how they felt.
months later, examining the scars on my own neck and back
i remember with a laugh that i once thought
i could never survive being fucked that hard.
he came as a shock
under the setting of the sun,
a backwards green mario cap
and all the old jokes, the same smile
the usual flash-fire raised along my spine
in flawless remembrance.
the sex came as a surprise
and even though i bear impressions of his teeth
reliefs artists might shiver for
while dentists clamored with fists of fifties,
even though miniature knives pierced my labia
when i pissed not thirty minutes ago
(he is always so rough, he tears me i am sure)
i am still not sure i wasn’t dreaming.
before my shower, my skin carried his scent;
i did not want to be clean, but compulsions are demanding
and so i scalded his sex, his teeth
and his memory from my flesh with guilty pleasure.
he is home again and his lungs are caving in
as here in my living room i blow, frantic,
on the embers of his memory
and write a poem to hasten the flame.
is a boy on a white bed
with fingertips pressed to the vein
of his cock, like testing its vibrant pulse of ardor
like a woman with her finger slid between
swollen labia is a slut
and who decides which is which?
all i see are two naked people
who need someone else to touch them.