He takes the sheets to his nose.
They are fresh out the dryer,
more ashen than any overcast in this city.
When he brings the fitted sheet
to the first corner, his blades flirt.
I desperately want his making to end
with a kiss on my forehead.
But his bullness is what I love,
reappearing as the sheet snaps back
into his hooves. And again, he stretches
the fitted sheet. More puissant,
he becomes fictional. He tucks
the second sheet under the mattress
along the ribs. His arms unzip
a lightning bolt when he whips
the clever ocean across.
What god gave him sovereignty
over ordinary things of my life?
I have endured much this tenure.
I stomached a panther of pills
and was relieved. You know
what else persuades me? Rain
fingering the open window,
my mother’s voice singing,
In the morning, we’ll be alright.
In the morning, the sun’s gonna shine.
I tell him my mother asked
if I was on drugs again.
How does that make you feel?
he exhales, smoothing the blanket
with one swipe of his behemoth arm.
And I think of his breath spidering
my breath, my ass as it ripples
into his pelvis. I am watching him,
my man, and I am wanting us
as we were last night before
we finished and became a moat
of constellations. He fluffs each pillow
as he always does, has.
He checks his work. It was good.