Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—
everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;
your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.
One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton
for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,
glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,
shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.