Disquieted

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

with her.

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

possibly appease.

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 

follows.

© Ami Mattison