An Earthquake Involves Groundwork

Quinn McIlhone

You wear pretty blouses

and fetching little sweaters

to win me back

after she enters my life.

We made love all afternoon

on our anniversary

in late summer

so you know

I want your body

in spite of it all.

On Valentine’s Day you don

a pink jersey and a sweater

of harlequin diamonds

to suggest a rapprochement.

We’re sitting on the couch

when you lower your voice

through modesty to request

my presence in the bedroom.

I turn down the proposition.

Perhaps that was the goal

of my philandering.

Now you must compete

for sexual favours.

In recent months

you have taken to lying back

against the pillows,

arms by your side.

On turning to you,

I need only raise my head

and you will cradle me

in forgiving arms.

We’ve been together

for four years

and you know what I want.

You inspire what I want.

We are each other’s creations.

We resume relations

after the half-hearted rejection

on Valentine’s Day.

Even an idiot tires of denial,

so I begin to mooch about

on weekends, open to sex

but vague on our prospects.

You’re the embodiment

of everything I want,

but I come and sulk.

You test the waters,

floating a remark about the future,

and are met with cold silence.