Thou know’st that this cannot be said
- John Donne, “The Flea”
The truth is I cannot stop imagining them
late at night moving underneath you:
flat bodies shifting
in response to yours, coming
forward to press hungry mouths against
places where I’ve touched
my lips. Perhaps
I tasted them already
running my tongue
across your neck, feeling clusters of
red spots raised – a sign
I should have understood
as someone else, evidence
you were host for
a body I’d never seen.
Some nights I dream
I catch them, always underneath
you fucking wild with lust.
Did you know the male
wounds his lover during coitus? I’m sure
Alex Hubbard's work has appeared in the Green Briar Review and won the Hub City/Emrys Prize in Poetry. He lives, works, and tweets in New York City. Find him at @hellohubbard.