Some orgies are like family reunions with joy and laughter,
ice cream spilled on jeans, hostile clowns smoking
cigarettes in the parking lot. Some are like board meetings
full of scapegoats shuttling hands, fingers interlocked
as if awaiting the killing blow. And some are like executions
on an army base: proper stoicism in the face of death.
She exits the bedroom after her turn in the sack, lipstick punched across
lips and cheek, nude with despair. She passes the kitchen
and her reflection pounces from the microwave door.
They didn’t teach proper orgy etiquette in art school, the thought meanders.
Some orgies are like visits to the morgue to sit with swollen bodies you
never knew just because you want to be a good person.