all fours, erotic poetry, fucking filthy souls clean, plagues of Egypt, poem, salvation comes, sonnet
Call it a guidebook; how we survived plagues
without love. — In the scullery I breathed
in your aroma while you spread your legs
my face so close that your hips bucked and seethed,
desperate to be treated rough. Out of all
the plagues of Egypt a loveless marriage
hurt the most. In the laundry room you’d sprawl
dazed in sunlight, cum’d and tongue’d. I’m the bridge
that took you from the stink of your husband’s
disdain to places you forgot were yours.
Can’t you still feel them? Once you burst, squirted
across my face. Once you fled these wastelands.
Do it again. Here’s the map. On all fours
salvation comes in your own cleansing flood.