i’m no good at congratulations.

i don’t want her name
from your lips, the consonants and vowels quickly mumbled,
all mashed together and sweating
crawling off your tongue
like men lost in the desert
40 and then 40 more days,
the sweat on our thighs
the only water for miles.
a name gives her structure-
a face
a stomach
and hips that surely will or will not
bruise yours like mine do.
it gives her flesh
and eyes
and dark wet places
and it’s too much, too fast;

i will give you up inch by inch
holding fastest
to the softest skin on your belly,
losing last your ragged dirty smoker’s fingertips.
i wonder about the perfect oh! her lips
would make
if she could see through
the miles of concrete and steel
and see us here,
you kissing my shoulder blades
lightly lighter lightest
because you love the hard parts of me best;
the perfect oh! she would utter
if she knew how many times i
can make you come
hardly harder hardest
creeping up my back stairs
every night that she is away.