Except…I Can’t Stop
There’s nothing better than the way my husband holds me every morning,
cradling me in safety with his body as if to say: I’ve got you. Except for
the way my lover holds my hips greedily, squeezing the meat between
my outer thighs and ass like his very world depends on it. There’s nothing
better than the way my husband kisses me good morning—
his soft mouth personifying affection. Except for the way
my lover kisses me hello—all desire and devouring tongue
and suction of my bottom lip. There’s nothing better than
the sight of my husband walking through the front door with dinner—
the sweet smell of pizza dough suffusing our humble apartment. Except for
the sight of my famished lover between my legs, hungry for my equally sweet
cunt. There’s nothing better than
the sonorous sound of I love you,
except for the sinful sound of I need you.
desires more fantasy
sacred, sordid secret—
and my robe still wants to drop.
Will anyone make me stop?
Just for Us
Just for me,
these secret affairs—except that they’re not.
Other people know,
and that makes them a non-secret
and therefore more dangerous.
Just for him,
the pornographic video he (Allen) requested
but that I never sent when I was in Hawaii,
and he was drunk in LA, grieving his hospitalized
father, who was recently hit by a car while riding his bike.
“Send me a video,” he begged.
But I didn’t. I sent stills.
A week later, also after midnight,
also probably drunk, he texted again.
“Let’s pick a day,” and I
assumed he meant for Pilates after a 2+ month
hiatus, but he never replied when I listed his options.
Just for me,
What my husband thinks
when he looks at my naked body
except that it’s not.
It hasn’t been.
Just for me,
What Kelly, Allen’s fiancée,
and Celina, Josh’s wife,
also think when they look at their partners,
blissfully unaware of their transgressions.
Just for you—
and anyone else who will listen,
and keep my non-secret—
I recount the details, sultry and sordid,
like this one: both my men are whiskey men.
If you want, I’ll tell you all that has happened.
All that may still be happening.
Such as this: I’m seeing Josh
this week for the first time
since he disappeared for a little while,
so he can show me his new tattoo,
and I can show him my Reformer,
and we can show each other
the just-for-me parts of ourselves,
from lips to hips,
that are really just for someone else.
Miri Gould publishes works of poetry and nonfiction, including essays, flash, and book reviews. She has collected over twenty-five publication credits to date with features in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Brevity, The Manifest-Station, The Jewish Literary Journal, and GXRL, to name a few. In 2016, Gold completed her MFA in Los Angeles, where she also resides.