Coupling

She,

sitting at his feet,

gazing with satisfaction

at the demigod that rises

in the middle of their bed.

He,

who no longer leaves the house,

even to collect the mail,

who always stops at the threshold

and doesn’t dare go beyond

on his own feet.

They,

who eat cold sandwiches

and drink

water from the tap.

Their wish:

that the outside world

remain outside.

With the windows closed,

every room is perfumed

with their hormonal fluids.

They hide

from the sun, from muggy days,

from snow and fog,

from sunrises and sunsets,

from the changing of seasons.

But then, if it rains,

there is seepage,

there is a drip

in the hall

and another in the bathroom

over the washing machine.

And when the wind is strong,

it creeps in through the cracks

and below the doors and the windows.

And sometimes

they roast

and sweat under the covers.

They understand

that the outside world

will not remain outside

for long.

The world is neither complicit

nor distracted,

and will not be reconciled

to love.

The world turns nasty,

builds traps

with no way out;

it will drop a net of steel

over their refuge.

But at that point,

sweat and saliva,

sperm and tears

will have covered

their fused bodies;

they will have disappeared

among their fluids.

Then the broken doors

will certainly let

the mail burst in.

Its recipients

will be there no longer.