Love (for Lack of a Better
Term if You Must)...

politely you might call it,
only perversely
or if you were a pilates instructor
bending bodies to
fibrous favours
you’d have me
misconstrue
as luck of the draw
ten thousand times repeated
till a winner is found
in this small lot.

But i knew,
i knew
because late one night
lying in bed exhausted
you’d asked for
it
exactly the same
breathing hot on my neck in the
casually cast light
whispering my names
all in a row, chanting,
incanting a binding
spell ,
till logic and magic
have made up and held
sweaty palms
in
caressing
each other, the despair
of knowing they’ll
never
conceive.