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.