For Crying, F***ing Out Loud *

Perhaps it was true , we needed the road trip,
a break, a change in the scenery of loss but
the wound was still fresh, open and gaping,
and so f***ing you that night after shopping,
and dinner, and a day's great fun, laughing even,
after all of that, f***ing felt like crying, dying,
thick with the grief, unable with you to speak of it,
at least not right there, not right then, and seemingly
there never really was going to be a better time,
and I best be getting up and over it, push it out,
gnashing teeth, biting your skin, trailing my hair,
like a snake down your chest, teasing and hot,
a trickle of cold sweat running down my insides,
intent on mouthing you below, my upper lip split,
and I tasted my own blood, and wondered why
you couldn't sense, I was bleeding out, draining,
needed a soft shoulder, a place to land, comfort,
a hold to catch my tears, my grievous emotions,
and we could have done this anywhere, it didn't
merit an out of town trip, a cross country trek,
so my brain could not wrap my heart around this,
but rising to sit, holding your fit, I molded soft
to surround you when I most needed surrounding,
and looking at your face, your eyes pinched tight,
mouth skewed, grimacing, ready to scream my name,
I wondered why this exercise, since I had clearly
gone off, crept out of sight and left your mind,
and I couldn't hear you having gone so very far off,
having vacated the f***ing building, the f***ing bed,
turned inside myself, driving you deep in me, in spite,
every thrust a wish, a want, a need in reverse, a desire
to be held, wanting some space to let it go, but instead
rocking on you, wishing you could roll this punch with me,
just be there solid, patient, holding my place for a time,
while I cried, raged, asked why, angered, denied, accepted,
but instead I bucked up to it, f***ing your face right off,
in an effort to erase your lips before you uttered my name,
and some garbled funk, all that junk, nothing I could use,
my brain posturing, back arching, gut rejecting it, heaving,
heart screaming for some quiet time, safe haven, a vacation,
soft murmurs, chants even, to encourage necessary tears,
and right as I am going off, losing it, those naughty kids
came running down the corridor, screaming loud, laughing,
snapping towels and making so much beautiful noise,
and I questioned, where are their parents right now,
for crying out loud, who is in charge of this Bate's place,
for f***ing out loud, and I rained down hard, you in me,
falling free finally, lying next to you, both of us glistening,
and I figured, that flood of emotion, that was my tears.

"I just feel like I want sex.  I want to feel something else apart from misery and guilt.  It's either that or I go home and put my hand on the fire."  -Laura in the book High Fidelilty (by Nick Hornby), the night of her father's funeral.

*author's note:  contains liberal use of the f'word, in one very long, run-on sentence, but this poem really was about "f***ing" and not about "making love," as there is a pretty subtle difference, and grief is like a hemorrhage; you really can't break it up into sentences or paragraphs! -a