I’ve never written a poem about sex before. It’s a first. It might be a last.
If that orgasm were human
it would be the fat woman
in the sitting room,
flesh molded to the sofa:
springs shot, feathers flattened,
a spittle of foam poking through the cloth
under her pale thigh
blue-veined like knotted string
A stuffed cake-cushion.
Some orgasms are just thin
and only eat lettuce.