July

​

A red line of fuse 

burns from both ends, sparking

down the middle of his street.

Louder than I could imagine

 

Later I can’t get wet enough to come.

He tries, fucks me fast, 

touches me the wrong way.

 

He kisses me expertly

biting, sucking,

so wet, 

so hungry.

My tongue I don’t know where

his tongue gripping mine.

He knows. 

 

We talk,

twisting to face each other

on the spartan bed.

Exactly one blanket, two pillows.

The way he touches my shoulder, 

punctuating what he says. 

 

I fold the blanket down to see his face

an orange that won’t stay still.

I peel

it turns

I chase.

 

We bite and suck and kiss again.

I am overstimulated, raw.

On the street the fireworks 

so close we stand under them, 

arms around each other.

Pretending this is real, pretending it can last.

Weary fire trucks roll by, house to house,

street to street,

sparks to sparks.

 

He offered different wines, chosen so carefully.

What is my desire to help him, to ease

his raw, painful days?

 

During that awkward half hour

before we undress,

he sticks his nose in his wine glass

hovering for a split second,

a bee in a flower.

It punctuates his crazy fast speech.

 

His kitchen sink barely functions.

In his bed I hear the squeak, 

he washes, polishes, strokes his precious wine glasses,

patiently, lovingly, tenderly.