Because drink is a man with eyes more ocean than sky, 

with wit, whose good humor surrounds him like fragrance, 

whose suits sit just right and don’t wrinkle, 

who wants to pour himself into me 

and brings me books—the right books—

and takes me to a hotel room above an exotic city,

and dresses me in silk just for the pleasure of sliding it down, 

who enters me like a flush of good fortune—

who, it turns out, is married, and likes to hang me 

over his knees and smack me till welts rise up burning,

and I spend a long time later, bent funny before a mirror, 

straining to see the bruises on my backside, 

wondering if this was a price I wanted to pay.

And by then, honey, it’s too late.