The women who love me
tread upon my sleep
and I am awakened
by their coming
one by one, visiting my living
room, arranging themselves
upon furniture, dropping their luggage
and backpacks meant for staying.
“We’ve come for you,” one says.
But we go nowhere together.
Instead, they fan out around my house,
take up residence in my bed,
rattle pans in my kitchen,
dust the houseplants.
I am wanted yet wanting
for what they want from me.
I make love to the boldest,
make conversation with the shyest,
dance with those who stand in corners.
And yet not one takes me
I suckle at a breast that becomes
suddenly another’s breast.
I tongue the familiar lips
of a stranger. I am
fed, bedded, and plumped
by so many more than I could ever
I name and tremble before each one
so she might kiss
my cheek, stroke her hands
upon my oiled hair, say my name
as if she means it, and whisper
her divine demand in my scarlet ear.
Then, I run. I mean,
I flee as I am meant
for leaving, and no one
© Ami Mattison