Baby, You’re a Blight
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.
about the author