Hives

My REM is a hotspot for bruisers.
The receptionist ushers them into my bedroom and I have to say
            What can I do for you this morning?

            What can I do for you this morning?
This one’s a regular. He
escorts me away from my slack-mouthed sweetheart,
to my family room,
to the sofa that makes me itch.

The visitor invites me to sit by him, face his hazel
eyes, Greek cheekbones, rueful smile,
our twelve-year-history.
            I’m married. When you come, it
            looks bad.

He apologizes and I begin to feel his love.
It’s on my left knee first. His leg is just
touching mine.
He slides his hand between
our legs and starts
scratching my knee hard.
            You’re hurting me.
He asks if it really hurts or if it just itches.
            It bothers me.
I crane my head and look through the bedroom door
to the lump under golden covers.

My alarm goes off to end this encounter, but
I leap toward the bedroom, past my spouse…
I press dream.

Back on the sofa,
I let the visitor grab my face. With scratchy
callous hands, he pulls me in to suck
on my top lip.

I feel the pulsing,
scratch my knee, wrists, back, both calves.
I’ll take my medication when it’s over.

By Tara Bowen