Flying
What is it about airports
that make me think of sex?
Those long runways, perhaps,
or the word, pilot. I rarely rode
the plane until I went off
to college, September
stretching its long body
in front of me as I stumbled
between classrooms. There weren't
any gardenias to smell
in Philadelphia. Instead, beery
frat boys, new textbooks, Chinese
food trucks. Gravel replaced sand
until I flew home in December
across the country,
the Pacific Ocean, wondering
if there really is such a thing
as the mile high club
and if I would ever become a member.
To be honest, I never
had sex in college. I flew solo
if you know what I mean.
When I finally landed
a gentle man with thorough hands,
my world did not stop. It just
tilted a little. The emergency
masks came down. I had to
take in huge gulps of air.
We Always Seemed to Disagree
You were so romantic, in love
with love stories, so I told you to go see
Brokeback Mountain, thinking
the movie would move something
inside you like the sun arched against
the back of the sky. But you said,
"Two men fucking each other
is disgusting, unnatural, against God's
will." Days later, I moved
my tongue in and out of your asshole
for half-an-hour, as you moaned
on my futon like a dying animal.
There was a morsel of shit
stuck in the coarse hair
of your right ass cheek that I rolled away
with my fingers, swept onto the floor
of my study, afraid to tell you in case
I embarrassed you. You told me
to play with your balls. I did,
breathing in the harsh scent of your ass,
licking all along its crack,
tending to the part of your body you
had sheltered from pleasure's
wild storm. You begged,
"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."
my God. I didn't stop
until you came, ferocious
animal, body collapsing under me,
a broken man.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux