That night in my bed you said you like it wet.
I presumed you meant sweat, but you said wet
in a lurid tone I felt prone to misinterpret.
Not being psychic, I had to intuit what this wet
revealed about your sexual brand, about land
I would have travel to excel at getting you wet
at liquid temperatures only our bodies convect –
a first-splash-surprise-but-not-in-my-eyes wet
whose deep tingle resultant you later exalted
as being struck by lightning in slo-mo while wet.
From where does this come? I have some ideas
about root stimuli I could verify when my wet
hands search you for clues during that quiet
into which you sink when at the brink of this wet
as I crouch and snarl coarse things above you,
my keen peter unseen, my job to get you wet,
to unlock some uterine secret and lovingly permit
my rowdy dousing to arouse you beyond just wet.
Are these the things we do for love? I was left wet
with tears the first time. Now, dear Donald, I am dry.
Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he writes about our modern digital existence, his many former lovers, the Eighties, and growing up Appalachian. His work has appeared in Kettle Blue Review, The New Verse News, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and many more. His first-full length book of poems – Going Fast in Loose Directions – appeared in 2014, courtesy of Queer Young Cowboys.