You with the double-hung belly. You made
a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.
We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid
far too often. For a week we were high
as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang
and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk
the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —
while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk
after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp
remained perverse; my head buried between
your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,
tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling
out to the gods prayers devout and obscene
as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.