Sweet Tarts

Eroticism Week Poem

Sweet Tarts

The fight was the regular 52 card pickup.

We lie awake
on opposite ends of the bed.
Every other minute
I rock around,
pretending there’s no way
to get comfortable,
careful not to even let the tip
of my pinky toe
so much as touch his foot.
I grunt and huff
and toss my head opposite of him,
letting my wet, angry hair whip
his fiery, naked back. 

His head rises, nudging the
thick shadow draped over our room.
He finds my pack of Sweet tarts
on the bedside table and tears
at the purple, pink, and silver wrapper
until two fall loose into his hand.
He puts them in his mouth
and rests his head back
on the feather pillow,

He secretly gathers the twos, threes, and fours.

I try to force out another huff,
as he sucks, clicks,
and shuffles the sugary disks
between his tongue and teeth,
I play irritated, stiffening my body.

He turns me over,
giggling as he presses
his wet lips onto mine,
my stomach, knotty
while his candied tongue
does an electric dance
inside my mouth,

He licks up the fives, sixes, and sevens.

I pull him to me harder,
clawing at his silky black roots,
the smell of clove cigarettes
and apricot shower gel
stewing between us.
I let out a premature moan,
he rips away my t-shirt,
heavy with “fuck offs”
and tosses it onto the floor.
I wiggle and kick to break my legs free
from my pajama bottoms,

I scoop up the eights, nines, and tens.

His lips thrash, wild
around my neck and breasts,
but I take the pads of my hands
and push him down further. . .
On his way he bites and tugs
at my belly-button ring,
the silver jingling in his mouth.
He looks up at me,
his dark rueful eyes
slicing into my soul
like hot blades through wax.
I toss my head back in ecstasy,

I scuffle for the Jacks, Queens, and Kings.

I yank him up and heave
his muscly flesh onto mine,
kissing his soggy neck.
My fingers massaging his
hard tattooed back.
We tumble about the linens
beating out heaps of blame,
our tangled bodies
rocking in one fiery mess. . .

a race for the aces.

No thoughts
of him flirting with that redhead
at The Smokehouse,
For a second
all that matters is. . . Sweet tarts.

Heavy breaths and sobs between
“I’m sorry” and “I love you,”

and all the cards have been picked up.