27. the poet

at some point  
you looked at her  
and thought of me  
and you made that mistake --  
not I.

and at some point you decided  
that getting naked was a good idea  
and that the water was only as cold as the summer was hot  
and you  
pulled the trigger of my achilles tendon  
and you  
couldn't stop staring at my tongue  
and you  
slapped that mosquito that was slurping behind my knee  
right when it was  
wiping my blood  
off it's mosquito mustache.

and you took me out  
for steak tartare and asparagus soup  
on the east side of town.

and you said you wrote a poem about me giving you head  
describing how you described
your fingers tangled in my dark winter hair,
whispering how you whispered  
"good girl" in my ear.

while she was inside  
hugging your friends,  
lighting the candles,    
celebrating you  
and your latest book.