War of the Words

We spoke in superlatives
until dawn, dear John
and my Self, voicing his
mononymous question,
was I seeking monogamous
suburban incarceration,
uncertain if patience serves any
purpose; or would I service him if he

extended the invitation? It’s
getting late,
I said, learning head-on
what lessons so early said hit
into one’s mouth, raging like hard-ons;
It’s only morning, he countered, lips
bent over my better judgment, fists strong,
needing my thighs impatiently
as if rubbing them raw would empty

desire onto the road, sighing what’s
coal to the tongue, what’s fire flung
down heaven-south; fences
of teeth spread ajar, opened
to let in just the tip, this
phalanx of men marching, when
I sign my peace and we each
shoot a round, burning to be freed.

It’s not the erection, but its
coming down which causes men
to write-off what such loss rips
from them; monoliths tumbling
at the sound of the cost, thick
as it is with conundrum—
to be beaten often seems
defeating, when love’s monument needs

upkeep but oh, how it weakens
them: the truth, that affection
reveals intent, unshields secrets
as if the world-soul conceals from
the heart that trembling part’s riches;
each beat permanent, each collision
of skin reverencing our deepest sea,
which drowns us from within eternally.