There is no way to know what she does in the dead of night,
what she allows inside her, what drips from her lips or hips when she is done –
the private life, the moan and groans on the privileged gets to hear, though I
imagine it all, and know she knows more about it than even I can imagine,
having learned it all from some old woman on some cruise, who gobbled up
brothers and sisters like candy.
I know she knows more than I do, from how she talks on the
phone, from what she askes to be done, what she does on the far end I cannot
see, even though I can never know what she does when I’m not on the other end
of hear, or who she does it with, or what she demands of those she shares that
dark nights with, dripping when done in all the right places
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