This morning I was bedded
by a Jew, who, all night
and into dawn never died
"the little death;" petit mors.
He scapegoated his psych meds:
"Too sedating," he complaining
he can't get off.
But my back shows scratches,
my neck the prune-shadowed
purple mouth-shaped
bruises.
His word: "in-fat-u-ate-(e)d"
when I'd said no strings.
I should've known how doped-up post
coital serotonin sings too sweet a song
for an endorphin junkie, never mind
the week of his inpatient recovery, substance-
free.
I'm also sporting a bite-mark on my chest,
too low for the cover of any cardigan collar.
Damn thing keeps peeking
out around my school-day scarf,
only half apologetic. Smirking.
To top it off, I'm still fucking
married
to a midwest Catholic boy, and
for the last three seasons
(winter's no relief) closely tailed
by these damp sheet dreams
of an atheist with uncut cock
on a Northeast Atlantic island
years away
from now.
Now, when I show up Friday an hour late
to work, it's for the fifth time
this month.
I slept through my late-night promised
plans for someone's birthday,
and, shit, I can't get sober
for Saturdays' Statistics classes.
I still dream of Death as well,
but drive with seat belts
buckled nowadays. And
I just spent my Emergency Abortion fund
on April's rent:
my own place.
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