April 8

Possession

His fingertips are wide and rough. They scrape
like match heads on the underside of your arm.
He stinks of sweat. Up on a fire escape

a figure retches. The little hairs on the nape
of your neck are standing, near-priapic, with alarm.
His fingertips are wide and rough. They scrape

across your cartilage. Your mouth's agape
into the palm of his massively warm
hand, and only the apostrophes escape,

becoming limbless birds. You wake. You wipe
your mouth off on your pillowcase. The harm
from his fingertips, so wide and rough as they scrape

your thigh, is in your mind. You're in good shape
these days. You've moved out to a little farm
(Your therapist suggested an escape).

But even though you've learned to say it--tape
recordings prove this--and nothing came to term,
his fingertips are wide and rough. They scrape
the walls at night, and there is no escape.