dishabille

06 Friday Jul 2018

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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.

coitus carnalis

05 Thursday Jul 2018

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Photos of you from the 80s: your permed

mullet, day-glo spandex, braces. You mused

 

about your lovers: the first girl who squirmed

under your tongue, the first boy who abused

 

your bum. We wouldn’t have been friends back then.

You liked dudes, ripped and mean. I was neither.

 

What was the term? “Art fag”? Still, tonight, sin,

a slick mess, has brought us to this. Cancer

 

has not dimmed your ardor. Your husband snores

upstairs. Your younger self stares down on us.

 

I have to wonder if she’d be surprised

to find you spread wide? skewered? on all-fours

 

like beasts? Slow, deep feast — coitus carnalis

— cum now, I think that she’d be scandalized.