sweet leeches of desire. Crazy woman,

her brain full of bees, see how her palms curl

into fists and beat the pillow senseless.

And when my body finally gives in to it

then pulls itself away, salt-laced

and arched with its final ache, I am

so grateful I would give you anything, anything.

If I loved you, being this close would kill me.

Afterwards

when we sat side by side

on the edge of the unmade bed,

staring blindly at our knees, our feet,

our clothes stranded in the middle of the floor

like small, crumpled islands,

you put your arm around my shoulder

in that gesture usually reserved

for those of the same sex — equals,

friends, as if we’d

accomplished something together,

like climbing a hill or painting a house,

your hand at rest over the curved bone

of my shoulder, my loud nipples

softening into sleep.

Stripped of our want, our wildness, we sat

naked and tired and companionable

in the sleek silence, innocent

of what we’d said, what we’d done,

our breath slowing, our heads tipped

and touching at the crown,

like a couple of kids

slumped on a dock in the sun, our legs

dangling above the bright water,

admiring each other’s reflections.

2 AM

When I came with you that first time

on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet

under my back, the heel of one foot

propped on your shoulder, I went ahead

and screamed, full-throated, as loud

and as long as my body demanded,

because somewhere, in the back of my mind,

packed in the smallest neurons still capable

of thought, I remembered

we were in a warehouse district

and that no sentient being resided for miles.

Afterwards, when I could unclench

my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.

You were on your knees, your arms

stranded at your sides, so still —

the light from the crooknecked lamp

sculpting each lift and delicate twist,

the lax muscles, the smallest veins

on the backs of your hands. I saw

the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow

pulsing at your throat, all the colors

in your long blunt cut hair which hung

over your face like a raffia curtain

in some south sea island hut.

And as each bright synapse unfurled

and followed its path, I recalled

a story I’d read that explained why women

cry out when they come — that it’s

the call of the conqueror, a siren howl

of possession. So I looked again

and it felt true, your whole body

seemed defeated, owned, having taken on

the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists

loosely bound with invisible rope.

And when you finally spoke you didn’t

lift your head but simply moaned the word god

on an exhalation of breath — I knew then

I must be merciful, benevolent,

impossibly kind.

The Lovers

She is about to come. This time,

they are sitting up, joined below the belly,