the sex that could’ve been (1st draft)

was the sound of rain on a window sill.


ships that don’t pass in the same river


these are what spared me tonight;


the husks of men you left behind

the size and ambition of hailstorms

something more than fumbling sheets,

barroom two-liners that too often don’t spell


the admittedly utopian belief that free wine

is not always sexual harassment.

the sex that could’ve been was

probably vapid

miscarriaged, meno-

pausal, payment for alimony

that you’d only use on the new jeans

you’ll need to feel skinny again

(even when you’re no longer having



the two of us could’ve been two fields burnt flat

by hate, that kind of sex.

accidental sex, childhood freeze-tag

sex, you’re a ‘tarmangi’, i’m a ‘garmangi’,

you’re not a child but have sex like you still are

sex. after forgiveness, what sex?

you’d leave after

sex, and i’d go put up pictures of our dream house

on trees in the wilderness,

         sex like that.

you could have been Desdamona,

blaming the world for the lust that was yours

but your kitchen is bored; your bathroom

leaves me un-intrigued, looking for more

sex, naked sex, sex in your curtains i guess,

and your curtains leave me

looking for doors.

not because they probably match the

parking lot. because

sexed, unsexed,

you’re lady macbeth

(without all the ‘thy mother’ jokes:

‘i sex you with all my heart until thy

children’s bone teet, thy mother’s a whore’ sex).

or else you’re Romeo i bet, disguised underneath

the sheets like a closet-trannie, a secret-tweaker

no one wants to know the secret of.

no one wants to know

what sex you could have been. try and

keep that kind of thing to yourself


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