Marissa Higgins

AUTUMN WITH INCUBUS
 

The monster
under my bed
is hunching,

complaining
about scoliosis
and my body

odor—
he accuses it of
porosity.

He is knitting
a blanket
out of dust

when I tell him, you
have to leave right now
.
He laughs, slips

one of my socks
around his penis,
and rubs.

I hear the dispatcher
raise her eyebrows.
What did he say? What

did you say? Can you
put him on the phone?
I need his side of this.

Beneath my bed,
he climaxes. Groans,
then giggles.

The dispatcher reminds me
he likely has a wife
and kids.

Maybe even
a daughter.

Did you ever think of that? 

                                    
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