Intifāḍa

Kisses of bitter almond trouble her
veil, poison him. Softened stubble bristles
until he feels nothing but anger prick
his ears. Reticent, answers with bitten

lips, then sits back down fast after she blasts
the façade of his resolve with one word
bowling over its fortress’ walls. ‘No!’
she wails, offering nothing else. ‘Isn’t

it odd,’ he thinks to himself, ‘That other
women would fight over me, but now my
new wife wants nothing to do with what our
bed begs of us; in a standoff stance, sticks

to her guns and demands I hide no more
what any other bride would want killed quick.

Silence my desire, before we met, for
an occasional taste of another
man’s dick. Deep-six it, lest hunger grow thick
with pangs which famish the flesh. Insistent,

ever since I confided the secret,
she wants to witness it. Won’t let me near
unless she gets to watch me with some friends—
mine, hers, and ours—panting for hours, filling

with ravenous breath the marriage chamber
awaiting us to undress, my brethren
former paramours and myself.’ Far more
accustomed to calling shots, he submits

to her relentless request, swallows pearls
with the ease of oysters and adores it.