Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?



Before a face suddenly numinous,



her eyes watered, knees melted. Did she lactate



again, milk brought down by a girl’s kiss?



It’s documented torrents are unloosed



by such events as recently produced



not the wish, but the need, to consume, in us,



one pint of Maalox, one of Kaopectate.



My eyes and groin are permanently swollen,



I’m alternatingly brilliant and witless



—and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.



Although I’d cream my jeans touching your breast,



sweetheart, it isn’t lust; it’s all the rest



of what I want with you that scares me shitless.





