Coma

I chew on spoon-fed words,

Mouthfuls of chicharron and the way you call me baby.

My lips are greasy and my belly’s so big

Your dad thinks you’ve knocked me up.

But it’s really “el mal de puerco,”

The lethargy that comes from eating too much.

I’m always tempted to spit something back onto the plate

And if I spoke better Spanish I could tell you

That if we have sex I’ll probably cry

That the difference between making love and fucking rules my life.

I called my therapist to talk about you

But the wifi was spotty.

I suppose I don’t need to describe to a 60 year old man

What oral with you is like.

You’ve been great, really,

Opening the car door for me

Wiping salsa from the corners of my mouth.

Perhaps I’m in this coma due to

What happened at eight years old on the orange rug

Or having sweaty hands grip my first pair of lace underwear

Or being too old to not know how to give a hand job.

Regardless of the reason

I hope you don’t pull the plug just yet.