Concubine

Charles B, I never knew you to be a cruel poet.
You’ve been more than honest enough,
loving me with straightforward words
and cheap wine,
after-sex cigarettes laid out in perfect lines,
hardly ever leaving doubts
to stain pillows, sheets
and my smoky eyes.

If I were a lesser woman, I’d tell you
I feel privileged and honored
that you still call me your whore,
never throw me out of your bed,
no matter how sick you are of my sickness,
no matter how distasteful
I am when the sun rises and you see who I am:

gathering storm clouds
furrowed deep into my brows,
my arms akimbo,
daring you to be real.