we’d like to believe our love’s a private sentiment

When we fuck, stars don’t peer down: they can’t. 

We fornicate indoors, under roofs, under wraps; 

far from nature’s prying eyes—from the trees’ 

slight green choreography, wrung from rigid trunks, 

that leaves us unmoved. In full view of the shower 

head and bookcases, we lick and tickle each other. 

Every stick of furniture’s a witness. We’d like 

to believe our love’s a private sentiment, yet 

how many couches, cots, and benches have soaked up 

some? Lust adheres to objects, becomes a prejudice 

instilled in utensils by human use. How can I blind 

these Peeping Toms—silence the libidinous whining 

of these sipped-from paper cups and used toothbrushes? 

I can’t. I wait for the outspoken adolescent spoons 

to rust and hold their tongues so we can be alone. 

 

[Amy Gerstler {1956- } 'Housebound', from Bitter Angel]