From the Fishouse

Condom dried out, so I take it off –
no longer contained,

we start working,
getting somewhere.

I’m slick with spermicide
& spit & I’m about

to finish when you joke
about our child.

with your blue eyes,
skin somewhere in coffee
heavy with cream.

I join in, still trying to come,
imagining tightly curled hair,
that relents at each end,

unspooling. We can’t help it.

Trading features, I want to hold
onto every conjured freckle

as I begin to grow soft,
then give up.