sitting on a man’s face with Catfished blaring on the wall-mounted television

to out-sound our sex noise, because his mother is hosting brunch downstairs,

sitting on his face after waking from fitful sleep, nine hours of leaning

into my breath to steady an erratic heartbeat, counting up to ten

and back to one because I should feel so good with my warm lover curled

around me and the hundred short drives of seeing his hometown

and eating its burritos on its beaches and laughing at the worlds’ fair architecture

and how the radiant city movement was an orchestrated intimidation

beloved by fascists as much as our kid selves loved Balboa Park and hollered

into its scientific instruments, whispered into the dish that sent my whisper

to the room’s opposite corner, and I count my breaths up to ten and back

to one while road noise filters up the valleys and through my hollow earbones

and into my hollow body that even after all this sun and sex and exercise

wont process serotonin, even full of love and burritos and beaches feels hollow, even

awake and sitting on his face while laughter filters up the stairs and while we shush

each other, up the volume until the woman on the television reveals

that she was catfishing her ex-husband all along, wanted him back and wanted it

blasted on television, good and public, and we are shushing while the flat screen

and the white elephant are laughing louder and louder and I come wondering if I’d be

proud to know my son so loved to please his women, even the un-pleasable ones