When I fuck you, it is Mardi
Gras in my head—
sweet,
with my mask secure, and you
like a slide trombone,
a pandeiro, reco-reco in your
hips.
I put it down—down
like a samba,
its pulse the beginning
of our everything.
With my mask secure—
there it is—
one rabid mask or another,
trepidation hidden
behind yellow feathers.
My mouth, which would say
I am about more than this,
is buried in the pillow,
my hair caught in my teeth like
reins.
Jesus, pinch me again.
Your touch tears through me,
yet it isn’t all that I want.
The sun has gone down—
or is about to rise,
I’ve forgotten where in the
world I live.
Seattle—Brazil?
Quero você, doce amor.
This heat, this funk—
it pervades the room
and you are telling me again
you need to go?
You leave—
my juice slathered on your skin;
a trace of me
under your nails—
evidence--
a crime scene.
What will your wife say?
When we fuck
it is Carnival, and in my head
I hide my fears
under feathers,
sequins.
Wherever you touch—
gimme, gimme, gimme.
I am hungry.
Your leaving tears me up—
this is not what I want.
I want to be seen with you.
I want to be seen by you,
unmasked.
Your scent on my hands,
the ache where my jeans ride up—
you know where I live.
You need to stay.
