Two fingers up to love

As we sat in bed that night, I looked over at you from afar

Between us, unassailable ravines of crumpled bed clothes

And an ipad, perched before your tits like a shield.

I watched as your pale zombie-like finger trotted

Over the glass as if it were an LA Fitness treadmill.

While your Instagram feed rattled off.

I remembered how that same finger once slipped inside you

Always at around the midway point of our foreplay:

Once the general trajectory had been agreed.

You’d bite your bottom lip until it hurt

Then you’d look at me, like cornered, wounded prey.

Until I approached upon my knees, charitably

To lick your wounds.

I looked down despairingly, only to find my own finger

Sliding wearily down a grubby wall of Trump & Brexit posts

As the silent middle-class, middle-finger revolt took hold.

I paused and shifted myself antsily upon the mattress

As my backed-up semen bounced around like popping candy.

I shoved my finger in my mouth and bit away.

I remembered how that same finger once slipped inside you

Always relishing the sweet otherness of its capture.

As it became the vanguard for what would follow

Meticulously mapping the vast, slippery hills

And moist, undulating valleys

Like a kind of blind-cartographer

Before exiting triumphantly in its glistening cloak.