My friends want to see the dents on the pillow,
the stains on the mattress.
They want to know where things lie.
Whether I do the things they do, or the same things
Or things they wouldn’t, haven’t done, would like to do, or would never admit to doing,
would judge as shameful
would see as symptomatic of some social ill
would laugh about behind my back.
My friends do not want to know about the sex,
but are always groping for the shadow of it,
the chalk outline, the evidence.
We all try to speak within the bounds of not too little
and not too much, and the right sort of
that thing we never quite talk about, openly.
But always want to see,
just dirty enough
hung out in a furtive breeze.