Sick Boy

The sick boy sits and waits for tomorrow.
His penis is soft and needs watering.
Girlfriend's tongue licks it up and down
like a lollipop, with the result
that the penis feels the rush of blood,
stiffens, and his pelvis pushes it
deeper into her oral cavity.
She thinks, "depravity."
"I never imagined when I was younger,
that my joy would be found at moments
in the descent upon this boy's dick."
This strange smelling, responsive, object.
In the most object-like sense. It has no eyes,
despite the word-smithing of some.
It imagines an H.R. Giger image. Something
violent, penetrating.
Does it taste nice? she asks.
The taste of her flower has changed since he's known it.
At first salty, a bit sour.
But now the air of it intoxicates him;
it is not a mere convergence of descriptors.

"Jodi, I love you," he says.
And he means it, despite the fact that at his age
he cannot tell one passion from another.
If courage is experience, then he is a coward.
She needs his love because she's grown up without a father.
And men are like women, they are interchangeable.
Boys are even like girls.
Is she courageous? Yes, if courage implies blind trust.
But what has she to lose? No one has touched her
gently, taking her from lesser to greater stages
of sensitivity. So she 'enjoys' ... the manhandling.
Boyhandling. Having seen pornos where pleasure
coincides with physical exertion.

Two decades later, after five years of marriage
and two children, one of her students
will hold her down on her desk
while she begs him to stop.
She will go home, her rectum bleeding,
her heart haunted. Quiet, uncertain. Angry.