Flowers 3

By Stephanie Ervin

When we’re in her bed,
laughing under strands of
pearls, delicately holding
glasses of champagne,
breasts exposed

I don’t have to that I care
if I get caught

Instead I have skin and
giggles and nipples and
sweeter love than coarse
hands could ever give me

When I’m in my bed,
sighing under the weight
of flannel, the ragged
knuckles of coarse hands

I have to pretend to love the
man in a cave who snickers
as my black-eyed, white-
knuckled world slowly
crawls beneath him

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