, , , , , ,

Defiled, bent over, your pucker glistened
as I pushed in deeper; little maelstroms

ran all through your thighs. That night your husband
was out of town, your son was at your mom’s;

I slept over only once. “Sé cuánto
quieres follarme el culo,”
you joked

on the phone. All week you’d used a dildo
to stretch yourself out, and now, panting, soaked,

you groaned, “¡Dámelo duro!” so I did.
None of this lasted. The pillows loathed us.

The birds woke us. I went home. That was it.
Your taste, laugh, the inked Aztec pyramid

above your ass: all gone. I was anxious,
so young, you were my «Tía» so brilliant.

I use several phrases in Spanish in this poem. “Tía,” is the simple word for aunt. The best that I can do with, “Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo,” is, “I know how much you want to fuck my ass.” Finally, “¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “Harder!” or, “Give it to me hard!” All matters of the heart are bittersweet.