"I Keep Trying to Leave but the Sex Just Gets Better and Better"
Ali Shapiro

This is not what the door’s for—slamming
you up against, opening
your legs with my knee. And it isn’t
leaving, the thing I keep doing
with my shoes still on, or in the car
in the driveway in broad
daylight after waving
goodbye to your neighbors
again. But my body’s a bad
dog, all dumb tongue
and hunger, down
on all fours again, tied up
outside again, coming
when called but then always refusing
to stay. I know what I’m trying
to say, but it isn’t
talking, the thing that I do with my mouth
to your ear, even though
we got the orifices right. To leave
I would have to put clothes on,
and they’d have to fit better
than all of this skin. To leave
I would have to know where to begin:
like this, pressed up
against the half-open window? Like
this, with my foot on the gas? If seeing
is believing then why isn’t touching
knowing for sure? I just want my nerves
to do the work for me, I don’t want
to have to decide. There’s blood in my hands
for fight and blood in my legs
for flight and nowhere
a sign. Believe me, I’ll leave if you just
let me touch you again for the last
last time.