We drive home from the lake, sand in our shoes, (2019) Ketje Kuipers the dart of fish faint at our ankles, each shuttered BBQ shack a kudzu flash in my side mirror. Pleasure has become the itch of a mosquito bite between my shoulders, and your rough thumb on my thigh a tickle gentle as turtles bobbing in Sea-Doo oil slick and cellophane scraps. How many years did I suffer the loves that gave too much freedom and not enough tenderness? Let me be like the man we saw outside of Notasulga, hands cuffed behind his back, cigarette in his mouth, and you be the sheriff, leaning in close, cupping the sweet flame to my waiting face. --

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