After, she doesn't trust boys or bodies—
the way things leave them without meaning,
break through defenses and line up, pink and pink.
Like her fingers now, thrumming pink lines against
my jeaned thigh. Nobody sucks their thumb
in public, but I'd let years bend my teeth
the wrong way for a suck of hers. I'd lick the
half-moon slices beneath her eyes, taste for Brie.
In case you can't tell, I'm the one who loves
from the waiting room chair, darns broken rubbers,
sews my lips shut while she lies on the sheets
and yells Brian, Bobby, Gio, Jesus.
The nurses' voices drain everything up and out.
Vacuums sound the same no matter what they
suckle, low hum that sounds like joy but
is really the scrape of cinders across bricks.
After, I take her home to two-dollar sheets and
a side of pain meds. Her eyes dilated
past measure, she wants to be the one to enter.
She spreads me, tongue a spear, knife. Slice.
Her dark curls fall, fill the space between. One
finger, two, make the slow slide. I let her ruin me,
big fist. For the first time, I know how women
open around a head and take pleasure.
Her pink nipple on my tongue, the sweet salt flood
of sweat and come. Arch, bridge-like, between
her fist and mouth. The body can only bear
so much. My cries beat naked, heavier than air.
After, the sheets are quiet with blood. She lays her fist
on my chest. With each breath, I count five perfect fingers,
kiss the round, balled curves. "Baby," I say. "Baby."
She is already struggling to rise, to slip away.
Originally Published February 2008 - Contest Honorable Mention 2008 Erotic Poetry Contest