I may have to put on five or ten pounds,
I so like this contentment. I like the feel
of your belly, sticky, against my skin.

You kiss me again, slippy tongue snug beneath
my earlobe. Hair fluffs against my throat. Your thigh
slides heavy over me, a bother that melts

my heart in a puddle, in a place too clear.
This is bad. You’re living with your grandparents.
You spend too many hours on tumblr, instead

of your thesis. I think you need a mommy,
not a muff-diving missionary. I’ve got
no compass, just cunt on the brain, and cuddles.

I must’ve been born a slave, I know it.
Just this morning-- when I thought of you-- I said
to myself: you’re not that pretty, a bit full

of it, really. Sweet, how you can act so dumb.
Well, you’re young--er. That’s no proof you’ll ever have
a dime worth of sense. I sound like my mom,

I know, I know. I see, too, this is another chain
you’ll use to jerk me around (haven’t you,
already?). The wallflower role fits me

and it’s too late to hide behind another cup
of tea, now I’ve know the pucker of your nipples
against my mouth, my skin. In this night’s shadow

I’ve suckled your toes. Who knows, maybe you’ll
be my bed-dish twenty years forward. If I weather
your social calendar. You speak of way too many

friends for comfort. I’d like to grow a pot-
belly for your hand to smooth. Us, two tropical
fruits, gourds, grown ripe in the rank heat

of a finger-fucking garden. My god,
who still wears thumb-rings? You’re too wise and naive.
I’m done for though: my cunt wears your signet.

So I’ll wait, vegetate beneath your tendrils, touch:
and breathe, and sweat, serene to waft
beneath your wind, wakeful, to do what you will.