Fidelity (erotic poem)

Fidelity

Does it bother the apple
that these teeth now cutting
through its pale green flesh
were, not so long ago, pressed
into my earlobe with just
enough force to bring the blood
to the skin but no further?

Does the apple mind
that the lips on which its juice
is smeared still faintly taste
of my cum? Would
the apple be concerned
if I said it was not an apple,
but a quince, a plum,
an apricot, or a fiction;
if the mouth now grinding it
were not a mouth but
a space I’ve shaped to hold
the desire I’ve nowhere else
to put but here, right here?


Pádraig Reagan