Trina Gaynon



She thought they were making love
but what she heard the strangers doing
was leaning against the closed door of a bedroom
in the midst of an orgasm that made the timber frame
of the house shiver. In her dream
she entered this house unsure of what made it quake
so gently. It’d been a while since she’d been in a bed
or a home so moved by passion. It was a sorrowful thing
to be in such a place but not part of the heat,
embarrassing to the hearer of something so private
gone public, and the listener so hungry for it.

I am so tired of hearing the lovers, having lost their minds,
groaning for deeper, wider pleasure.
I’m tired of being sane and warm and calm.
What I want is to be inside the groan.