The morning after with a soft guy

is great. I'm up first. The bed dressed

with us. Marks of oil from the night

before's oiled back and hand. Oiled foot

and lip on foot. When Telemachus

wakes I dress him with the sheets and my lips 

again. It's great but he's far away

in Ithaca. Yes, dad is gone

and it's morning where wound is wound,

again. And winter is warm here.

It's all confusing, I think. He is thinking

about the ocean. About sailing

to nothing but birds. And red cows. I only

know the island I am. I only

like him because he doesn't

want to choke me while we kiss. When

I lie beneath him, I'm the ocean

and he crosses gentle

as an old boat. No motors. Only

wind. He stretches over me and

he is all the sun's dappled waves. He is all

the cypress and the rain. He is a whole ocean

and all the night's quiet

watching falls down his chest

like shade. And I tell him. I'm sorry

for dreaming you here. Then I'm at the stove

making the bread. Cooking down

the berries to blood. I am dreaming

of a softness I've never had. He is dreaming

of an ocean that sends back his dad.