Photos of you from the 80s: your permed
mullet, day-glo spandex, braces. You mused
about your lovers: the first girl who squirmed
under your tongue, the first boy who abused
your bum. We wouldn’t have been friends back then.
You liked dudes, ripped and mean. I was neither.
What was the term? “Art fag”? Still, tonight, sin,
a slick mess, has brought us to this. Cancer
has not dimmed your ardor. Your husband snores
upstairs. Your younger self stares down on us.
I have to wonder if she’d be surprised
to find you spread wide? skewered? on all-fours
like beasts? Slow, deep feast — coitus carnalis
— cum now, I think that she’d be scandalized.