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Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —

You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches


and a thick tattoo on your lower back

that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces


come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.

I look like trouble. The hospital room


is small. I wait in the hall as you three

chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume


where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,

thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille


lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,

the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.


That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels

good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.