Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom
of your nightgown; all that whiteness against
your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom
of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed
when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped
something queer from a gourd or a clay pot
that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.
Perhaps when it was time what you thought
you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.
Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought
me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?
Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.
My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.
Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.