Like the Lovers He Believes We Are
by Regis Boff
After the insect had raped me, it knew I would never tell.
He cuddled satisfied into my shivering heart,
awaiting my dreams to beckon him, coax him,
to climb on me again,
His little nails fiddle with my skin and do bug things to me.
It’s syrupy beetle drool pumps into my mouth aboard his foul flavored tongue.
While he hums the buzzing melodies of angry locusts
into my ears,
Every man’s rapist song.
“I see you even now, the way you were that day,” he says, as he unknots from above me.
He drapes his antennae over the pillow next to mine,
like an actor vainly adjusting his damp curls,
“Are you dead yet? It won’t be much longer, dear.”
The rustle of its sperm larva hatching inside me,
decides my answer.
“I am ready to die,” I say to his delight.
It relaxes, waiting for me to want to live.
He is excited by this.
“No more of me tonight maggot,” I say, getting up for coffee
and the bright kitchen light.
At breakfast, with it across the table from me, the question comes casually from him,
“So what shall we do today?
I am confused.
I try to spoon the faces of old lovers into my bowl of cereal,
to snub his question.
” Would they have me again if I did not tell them about you ?”
I finally ask.
” You would disgust them now,”
he says,“We are all the same you know,”
I admit, “I can see that now.”
So this is how we proceed together, year after year.
Its talons still hurt me while we walk hand in hand,
like the lovers I know he believes we are.
My hand curves around his claw.
I caress and raise it gently to my cheek and then to my kiss.
My deception can hold no estate in his soul.
Once we lose all hope of love,
we disappear into what has hurt us most.
Life never allows you to feel nothing at all.