Baby, You’re a Blight

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Your silks, those thin, sweet strings

stick to me, get caught in my hair. Days later, I find them

clutched to the canning stove, stuck to my bare legs, bare back,

the back porch where we fucked, unhusked

our skins where no one would see, tried to keep

from trailing them through the house. You take what you want

from me, say you’re full as a tick burrowed in a hound.

Your grease coats everything you touch,

smudge-black on my skin, my clothes, the door.

Later you round on me, scream I’ll beat your ass. You grab

and don’t let go, leave your prints even when you’re clean.

You’re sorry. Again. I let you

peck me like a crow plucks corn, newly planted, fertilized,

straight from the ground. You work hard, want reward —

you till me in early morning, forget to use your finger

to see if I’m warm. Your ear rot molds me in place.

I can’t leave by my own front door.