Hymn to the particular loneliness

of being

. Don’t say 

a little tongue

kiss is too much 

for you while your come 

is still dripping 

out of me. True, 

I wear my hunger

on my belly and I have worked 

long days in little 

jeans dirtying me

with something

other than shame.

Come on, you knew this 

about me. I want

to orbital-force 

play, rambunctious 

rowdy rollick. Ramble on. Full

stop feel. See these finger

suckers and nose tip

probe? And yes, good 

God, I love

pressing

my lips 

to everything.

The softest skin

of my Frisco thrums 

where wrist nips

forearm. But sweetly. Turn

out the electric

lamp and let the light

in. Please, let the butter sun

set lolly, lap up all the “oh”

of you in this terminal after

noon. I am not my father;

I will not doze into death.

Cut to a quick Houdini act,

skipping all the way across

the country, following dust

skirts dragged by a Deere 

truck across Iowa and so soon,

a lover tickled when

I call him, “boy.” He suction

cups his butt plug to the wall

of the shower tile above us. Hang

low, sweet mistletoe; his scrubbing

thumb in my ass, puckered 

sky light dripping glitter down

my breasts, A Creation

drawn by the gravity

of unts-unts shower

head disco. Dare we linger

on the floor? Fuck. Me, 

the light, the light, the swish,

swishing hips of pressurized

water. Unbearable exfoliation.

Darling, when the planet still spins

adorably to deepen the purple

of noon, your arteries are a little 

too prominent in the neck. Now, 

you are the one who I left.

Now, is there anyone left 

to doggone dirty puppy 

with me? Sing a hymn?

Sweet escape mission,

raise a note for the God who knows

I cannot make you love me.

A drum-a-dub-dub, felt

deep in the raw, for the thirty

years of trying every way out 

of me. But I’m still 

here in the hum.