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Tender? I make a poor first fruit. Green shoots
scarred to buggerclaw. You fret with kissing.

I with the bruise left when you knelt, peach fruit’s
spread. I gripped your hair in a knot, basting

down your throat. You tell of picnics, fat bees
droning, spring-time’s fete. I of back seats parked

in vile parking lots; two beasts of pain, grease,
cum, while a cop taps on the hood. I’m marked

to be broken. You’ll break me. Not ribald,
not curt, but tender. If redemption comes

in a kiss, in nothing more, then we’re doomed
since I ruined your faith, your bee-dazzled

glade. — You bit down on what felt like spasms
that burst inside: love that oozed, that mushroomed.