Sublimation
She watches the man as he slices rare beef at his wife's table,
balancing the steel knife in his palm.
Feeling the weight and substance of her gaze returned,
her longing spools out its own story.
Leaving their home she moves carefully,
as if he were not inside her,
as if their musk were not rising like incense,
her tongue not running against the grain of his eyebrow,
his soft thumbs not twinned over her nipples.
At home, awake,
she hums, wipes counters, tends to the dogs,
notes each soft step of a fly on her arm;
quickened by the rapture of her own risen blood.
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