, , , , , , , ,

It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;

I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain


control. The sheath of your ass. The severe

gape left behind in your behind like pain


each time I nearly pull out. Each time you

grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by


your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo

to watch the living play. We could still ply


her with love, let her sleep between us, but

you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone


and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,

or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.


There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan

out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”