By Tyler Gillespie
Told myself
I’d never fuck
a married
MAN,
but now
on my knees,
can’t keep
my word.
Married men are
the worst
in bed
& they wear
ill-fitting suits
& sweat
through their shirts
& mix
patterns & don’t read
poetry & don’t go
to the theater
& don’t give
a damn
your dad hit
you, b/c
you liked boys
who made YOU
feel RIGHT.
No.
Married men
only want:
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
don’t say
a word & god
damn
you suck me
good
you little slut
& keep
going & tell
ME
how it feels when
you get
fucked
w/o
a condom
I mean, I know it
feels better
I do it
with my
WIFE
No,
can’t be
myself when
I notice his ring, taste
his metal.
It’s not
a moral thing
don’t care what he does
with his pit stained
shirts & ugly
ties. Don’t care
if he touches
bruised tongues &
slack belts.
But I made
a promise
to only give
solace
to men
whose mouths want
mine
when they speak.
He never said
nothing,
so my hands
break into bombs
& I pray
& I pay
his skin washes
off soon.
Tyler’s most recent work appears or is forthcoming in Brevity, The Rumpus, The Los Angeles Review, PANK, Columbia Poetry Review, and Deep South. He is also an associate nonfiction editor at Bayou magazine.
Photograph by Michelle Johnsen, Broken