Slit Wrist

you set the hot skillets
down
and look at me
as if
a good meal and
your sweet brown smile
could cull
from me the parts
which do not answer
the egalitarian trumpet
of love.

I scrub the plates
all the while your frothy
devoted breath
on the back of my neck
until I rush
to the porch

and lean on the rail
thinking of other lovers for a while.
night rises in
a multitude of white roundnesses,
but I know
I owe you too much
to really love
you now.