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Back then you loved Not-Mom-and-Son porn clips.
You hand-rolled your joints and read Catullus

to me after middle school. Your wide hips
and ass held Latin names, even, “flatus

vaginalis,” — what the Roman poet
called cunt-vapors, caused by, “coitus more

ferarum,” fucking like wild beasts, sounded
posh. Your missing breast, cancer scars, dismay

in your eyes each time you came meant nothing
to me. You were my awesome. Ghost, hellbent,

do you dream of your cherubino or
do the dead forget? Even now, reading

Latin recalls that time before lament
and lechery; before howl and hardcore.

The erotic world feeds our souls and I loooove learning new erotic ideas and words in other languages. The danger is, though, a poem full of foreign words, 9 times out of 10, falls apart because the very same words I get so excited about mean nothing to most readers, so they get skipped over. If you asked me what makes a poem successful, “not skipping over parts of it,” would be high on the list. For the record, “flatus vaginalis,” is the Latin term for a pussy fart; “coitus more ferarum,” means fucking [in the manner of] beasts and, “Cherubino,” is a pet-name for a young boy infatuated with an older woman.