“Only my ass, daddy, only my ass.”
We sat by the window in your grandma’s

attic attempting to clean all the grass
stains from where you knelt among the thistles

and weeds to take me down your throat. Playground
hookup, you called it. — On the attic floor,

on my back, you ground your round venus mound
against my face. I’d tongue-fuck your flushed core,

if I could. But as I press in you stop —
tell me, not in there. “Don’t make angels weep,”

the nun had warned. We won’t. Dried cum, like glue,
dots your face, while, “be bop a lu she bop,”

plays downstairs. As I bury myself deep
in your ass I think, “I barely know you.”