THE FORECAST

In a sudden

downpour, he won’t

make room for me

under his umbrella—

leans away

when I put my arm

around him, asks

what do I think I am

doing, whose fault

is it for not having

paid attention

to the forecast

at breakfast when

I was still

toweling off

his cum from

my chest—the rain

falling harder

off those sharp

metal tips

jabbing my face—

 

 

NATIVITY SCENE

Who knows who made
off with the baby

Jesus, replacing it

with an empty box
of Trojans “ribbed for

her pleasure,” Mary’s

plastic robe spattered
with a substance 

ample enough

to fill any receptacle
tip, Joseph looking

the other way, the city

asleep except for 
the CCTV camera 

swiveling around,

trying to catch 
a glimpse of anything

to complete this

otherwise dismal
scene at four a.m.

where only a dusting

of snow was expected
to fall in a world

warmer than ever—

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