(To Be Read Aloud, In A Fake French Accent)

It’s hard not to
take stock of all the losses
you have handed me
This wide-open space
This South China Sea.

I remember the dinners,
Several, not many
But several
You brooding and full to the brim
of the balm of
With your hoary hosiery of sheer insight
and your abiding hatred for the Clintons that resonated
With my memory of my own father’s
Abiding hatred for
the Clintons
So I wanted to fuck you
even more
Or harder
But it wasn’t until
the third date
That I got my way
And even then you—
you comely flower—
you prince de chevalier,
You came, literally,
in the space of four minutes and
it panicked me to think
That I could no longer keep a man hard for very long.
That I had finally turned into
Something real
Something to cum on
Something with a full-to-bursting heart working overtime in the middle of her chest.
And how sad it is to think of this perfectly good, hardworking heart
Stuck in the middle of
this particular chest.
What had the heart ever done to deserve
this fate?
Of all the possible fates in every known
And unknown
Species of the

How I never could understand.
Never could I ever understand it
So I rolled over and you, maybe, or I was dreaming,
sweetly pining for this
Some of this
Or even just a small portion of this
To be true.

Yes, maybe you had slung an arm over me reaching
Not so much an embrace as
A resting place.
Me honored just to be held by you.
Little old you.
Such as it was
Insofar as holding goes

In the morning I
my bra
up against my breasts and
my thong
up high on the mountains of my
thin twin hips
Hoping you would actually take me from behind and
fuck me ceaselessly
So overcome with desire, the desire to come.
But no, nothing of the sort.
Cleanliness and consideration of cabinets
And a lunatic’s discussion of the
horridness of the current state of your
actually glorious, south-facing windows
How they “disgust” you
And how I had to agree
Because all I saw staring back
In that early morning sunshine
was my own bewildered self.