“Hurts,” you hiss, hoping the moppets won’t hear.
They sleep next to us. This is not new pain,
strange and supreme; just stretching, what Shakespeare
called, “the full length of my wit,” like cocaine
and all of our needs, deep in the, “marl’d earth,”
of your fanny. It’s the expansiveness––
what fear and endorphins bring, this rebirth
between gasping breath, dark realm of Eros
––that I adore. Like wit, not everyone
gets it; my sliding down, squeezing balls deep
in you. I’m a hungry ghost. You’re famished
for love, all love; even as your children
wake, to stare at you twisting in your sleep––
blind that one more time you’re being ravished.