doing the dirty
on a mountaintop in Maine
we didn’t expect no-see-ums
attracted by the scent
to bite us where we ain’t
never been bit before
for days we walked around
stiff-limbed from the climb
resisting with all our earthly powers
the temptation to scratch

another time,
right here in Buena Vista
I had her up against a rock
with my pants around my feet
when a rattler approached
I reached in slo-mo for my gun
and he became a gourmet breakfast
of snake and eggs
crackling in a rusty skillet
on an open fire

now there’s just the two of us
no kids black flies or snakes
and we only do it in the bedroom
on the rare occasions
when the old urge bites

(originally published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature)