first you say his body is made different. I look this up
in all possible houses, to find only detergent and hints
that his body exists. you know how people leave certain
things behind when they move – that’s his body.
I try to write about you, about reading Ishion
to you in your sleep, your skin covered in vodka,
your hands grazed from the tight knot of the rope,
your tummy flat like some sad number, your mouth
slightly open, an invitation, your sex closed, and
on your forehead the words: his body is made
different, and I cannot resist it.
In your sleep, halfway into a poem, I say:
I want to be sad with you.
You tie me up nicely
and fuck me and feed me your fluids and wear that black
thing without any underwear on.