Pretty Spider

Your moan echoes,
magnifies the windows.

Lust sets you going
like a pretty spider.

The bedroom, not ours, slaps
our backs, your moan takes mine,

eats it for an early supper.

What I've come to count on: your voice
gives me an ear infection.

A final moan.
I float from the bed wearing nothing
but jeweled pins in my hair.

All night your words flicker
against the yellow sheets.

Your mouth opens with sleep,
snores like my husband's.
The window rages.

Then it's morning. On the porch your baldness
shines, booze our only language.

We sit on stools blank
as new museums.

I'm no more your lover
than an insect.

The tinny consonants smash,
the door never opens in time.