I don’t like thinking about
whom you’ve been with
but I tend to spend far too much time
trying to determine
the precise number.

I hate to think of it:
some stranger bathing in your beauty
you showered in his cum.
I hate to think of it,
but think of it I do,
time after time,
day after day,
hour after
masturbatory hour.

Who are these phantom shapes
that occupy your past
and your thighs past?
Where were they
when you were impressionable
and I
was so very unimpressive?

How did you find them
and why can’t I free them
from my fevered imagination?
I should be glad I know you now
when you are fully formed,
your misadventures through
– unless…
am I afraid that you have more to dare?
More men to meet?
And why am I asking you
when you’re not even here?