She’s nice about the whole thing—

me on my side, head propped with

one hand, pin-up style—saying,

You’ll feel some pressure, before

sliding her careful fingers

into my ass. How can I

explain this former pleasure

to her, that she’s not the first

woman to do things to my

body I can’t do myself?

Sex so quiet we could hear

the oven relighting its

flame behind us on the kitchen

floor. Right now someone in

Pennsylvania is killing

her thirst with a long swig of

Rolling Rock from the recycled

green glass of a bottle

my body once wrapped itself

around. I have loved the world,

and have let it enter me,

always, again and again.