Life’s a bit more blood and a lot
more laundry than I’d expected.
There’s little pleasure better
than watching one part ways
from the other, except perhaps
how they come together, once
in a great while. Folds on folds.
Chasing a stain on sheets, heat,
trust, hushed titter, and trussing.
I’ve got stories that’d seep blush
over your bloom, stories caught
tween larynx and tongue, kept
quiet as a lady-in-waiting lying
in wait, bare bag in her teeth,
hungry for his head to be mine.
