Talking about Sex with Melissa

Talking about sex is sort of like
killing for God.  It’s about as pointless
as an eraser.  But it keeps ruining
my life—the memory of my ex-.
I wish I was a tent in a forest filled with beds,
not one single politician on the entire planet,
or in it, or near it.  All of the politicians floating
in outer space, unable to speak or hear or breathe
while I’m down on Earth with my trees, my mattresses,
falling deeper into sleep and the echoes
of the conversations of the past are all fucking
like mad; they’re in the arms of God, peaceful
as the dead cat in the field in my backyard.

© Ron Riekki