If she wakes from a dream
of satiation, satisfaction, sensation,
what does she say to the man
in her bed?
Was it you? Are you magic? Do I know you?
Will I like you?
Whatever did you manage to do
that no one has known to do
before? What chores? What sweet
And…did I do it for you, too?
Let me look at you.
Are you beautiful or plain?
Does it matter?
Are you conservative or liberal?
Do I care?
Does that amazing mouth spout
racist hate, those sumptuous lips
spit curses on women?
Stop thinking, girl.
What would she say?
Thank you, thank you.
Do you know how long it’s been?
What else would she say?
Do you want breakfast? I can
scramble you an egg with fresh
spinach from my garden.
What more could she say
now darkness has bared
her less than lovely body,
still naked in the day?
(How dare she criticize the vessel of such pleasure?)
But really, will he care to see her looking like this?
Should she put on a dress? a t-shirt at least?
See the sunlight move across that stranger’s face,
shoulder, hip. That unknown man with those
unseen hands and other body parts.
What does he say?
“Come back to bed.”
“Well, maybe. Just this twice.”