I have quit doing the dishes; underneath the smell
	of soap and leftovers your scent kept coming
	to me, stronger than any cologne or aftershave.

	At first this wasn't such a tribulation.
	The dishes were only dishes, after all,
	and I could always go out to eat.

	But now I have also quit driving; waiting at red lights,
	I could taste you, dark and tangy on the back
	of my tongue where I haven't tasted you in a year.

	(Replacing the car did not seem to help.
	And you know how much I loved that car,
	the first one I ever drove.)

	Now, I am waking with bright whisker burns
	streaked across my breasts and belly.
	Somebody's hand has been between my legs.

	You know perfectly well
	I will have to stop sleeping.