I read your letter last evening,
and spent this one figuring
how it is you appreciate
women;
do you hold them in your arms,
smell their hair, caress them softly,
read them poetry against a southern sky ?

You know they say most
lesbians have no real passion,
no real need to come across
that line we blend so brilliant
it turns orgasmic.

Are you one of those, feigning
passion with the men, saving the women
your skin, your breath, thick in the night,
hoarding the orgasm from them both,

for those moments alone
in the dark where no one can watch
the muscles along your belly twitch
with about as much control
as your first lover had late at night
when the fear of being found out
held as much charm as the idea,
that a real body would take him in.