It’s a good thing I didn’t write you a poem this morning because
it would have been wasted on the woman who woke up in our bed.

To tell the truth she scared me and made me wonder
what the meaning of life and living really is.

She barked at me and pushed me around and pinched my tits
and by the time she was done venting there was little left of me.

As I was washing the fear off of me she smacked me in the ass
and told me to stop flaunting it I swear to God.

I missed you more than ever this morning with this poem inside me
like a lump of living rock from the Big Island.

It’s my offering to you, not to her who would never understand
or accept the intricacies of my vicious devotion to you.

All that matters to her is pleasure and pain, heat and ice, charisma and chaos, bodies distended and writhing beneath her touch.

She’s your defender, one who steps inside your hurt and helps
demolish the obligatory agony of openness and innocence.

Tell her who I am so this doesn’t happen again,
or maybe you prefer to keep your poet to yourself.