One of Many

I use the empty foil condom packet
for a bookmark, a memento of
the way he tears it open with his teeth
when he’s poised over me, and the heat
wavers between us
like the air above desert blacktop.
When rasping crows wake me early,
I watch him—long hair in disarray
and arms around the folded pillow—
as if his sleeping were entertainment enough.
I won’t erase his phone message from a year ago,
the one that says he needs me,
so, at any hour, I can listen to his voice.
At my bedside, I’ve hung his blown-up photo;
when he comes to see me, I take it down
and hide it in my dresser drawer.
He entered me like a thief who knew
exactly where the good silver was kept.
I fell—no, leapt—into pleasure. The first time,
in the middle of our loving, I asked him
“what’s your name?” and he had to say it twice.
Now, I know precisely the angle of his jaw,
how it meets the side of his neck at that place
I lathered and pulled the razor through.
As an animal rolls over to surrender its throat,
he let me sink my teeth.
For months I’ve gone on, kissing with open eyes,
knowing I am one of many. If I measure the risk,
by the price of the reward, some days I break even:
wanting and not wanting.


Jennie Orvino