Spite Sex

This tiny person

(Storm outside her window)

Cracks her dry voice.
From the throat
Flow wet words
“Pull my hair”

And the salts wash over their skin,
and fill tiny craters
dilating her song calling home.
Make the ocean moan.

How curious a thing –
Sweat –
That it marries excitement,
And worry;
Binds them.

To grind meat
And forge that association
To clumps of hair
In palms and around fingertips
To a familiar end.
And on us:

To marry all tenses of our being
In a porcelain mortar
And time
And flush.

Sewers keep filling
Meat dilating
And I eat curry in bed
To spite heartburn
and fill tiny craters
bellowing her song calling home.
Make the ocean moan.

My palms are empty,
But I’m full.
Her wrists are tied,
And she’s not.
And all tenses of our being spiral,
Following the storm
Into sewers;
Hair and
Semen into hers and
Curry into mine.

Natural mistakes
For her to regret
For me to collect are
Priceless keepsakes
In our own ways
In spite.