I didn’t mean to laugh when you put in your vibrator. I started to kiss your belly
as I imagined a jackhammer and little men in hard hats
drilling the blue-tip in. They wore lights on their hats so they could see.
The crew chief gave the “ok” with his finger and thumb. “She’s all yours, Boss,”
he said to me, “We didn’t need the canary after all.”
After you kicked me out of the room so you could finish,
I read the descriptions of self-published novels available on Xlibris.

One of the books I read followed Steve from Pittsburgh,
who wins the Lottery and achieves World Peace. He goes to the diner
and tells Ann the waitress he will use the $88 million to establish a foundation,

Ann tells her secret—she’s a billionairess.
With the money, Steve teaches Afghans how to drill for granite.
They legalize opium, kill Osama bin Laden, and make love. Mines and poppy fields
belong to Ann, Steve, and the Afghans. They sleep in the same bed. I turned on the TV.

I wanted to tell you to buy the jawbreaker-ball-gag, not the blue-tip
at the Hustler store. I thought about your breasts,
how they’d glaze from your sweat and the spit of the jawbreaker.
You moaned in the bedroom, and I watched Fraggle Rock,

the one where the Doozers build too many radish-stick structures—
they fill the cave, and the Fraggles fail to maintain symbiosis by devouring
the structures, until the very end of the episode. I slept with the couch.

Over breakfast you said you blew up three times,
each orgasm a carefully planted subway bomb. “Or mine clearing,” I said.
You told me to fuck myself. I wanted to say I laughed at the little men
and their hard hats, how they tried to clear a way for me.