Blue Sex (revised version)

This warm,
this early,
sex
becomes a blues:

lemon squeezing,
starter mashing,
rolling,
tumbling,
juice sliding down our legs blues;

“can’t be satisfied”
rumbling out for challenge,
not lament.

No guitar here?
Use an ice cube instead,
stinging it, sliding it,
running fast between mouths 
and bellies. 

The sun will barge in soon enough.
How humid it’ll smell then,
our hair torn up 
along with the room;

Chicago, sweet home Chicago in the background —

no matter how Mississippi 
it gets in here
this warm, this early, this dark,

we always end up
asking each other,
over and over,
“Baby —
baby, don’t you wanna go?”