Uptight Flamingos Will Only Have Sex to Marvin Gaye Slow Jams

Later, in the bedroom, you’ll undress me
or I’ll undress in front of you, and we’ll
stop mid-way because something you mutter
makes me uncomfortable, like that time you
said Tell me you like it before I even let you
inside me, and the way my limbs
became empty corn stalks and I tugged
my underwear back on because I had to
start over, and you’ll always keep saying
how sorry you are, it’s about the moment,
you get so into it, you just want me so bad
and I’ll really know that if I don’t close
my own eyes, I’ll watch you too closely,
find a new gray hair in your mustache
or count ceiling fan blades or imagine
us in the same bed at sixty. We’ll always
have to start over, try a re-do,
make it work somehow, even on laundry day
or in your mother’s home or in the car
while I think of grain bins or medical bills
or your brother’s new job or what we’ll
have for dinner each night that coming week,
when we’ve promised to do it at least
twice a week because all the studies say
that couples who make love more
are truly happier. I’ll ask you to change
the music, and change it again, or turn
it down, and you won’t hear me
and my hands will move too quickly
to catch up to your hands, and I’ll apologize
for all your apologies, so much breath,
and when it finally happens, and we move
remember how to move or where to place
our hands, it won’t be that awful,
and we’ll forget how long it took to get there,
how tricky it is to allow the body to open,
to let all that sunlight in.

(*title taken from a Jezebel article)

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