- Shawn Nacona Stroud
Cyber Sex

Your fingers should stroke
my keys once again, tap in
conjured adjectives
for your lust-bulked thoughts
to this or that
whomever. You’ve screwed
me with each letter
pressed. At first
I reveled in it. Listen:
this is our rhythm, those
clicks and clacks, thrusting
us toward climax. Your wife’s
snores filtering in from your bedroom.
I think I must have loved it
in the way some women burn
to prey on married men. Over time
I began to wear on you—
you handled me roughly and turned
offish simply because
I was the only one really
there. Finally,
you started to neglect me entirely,
let dust cloud my vision
until I was forced to watch you with her
like an aging mistress
watches their defeat
through slow-forming cataracts.
I realize now that it must be her or I.
I’ve been stockpiling your messages;
ammunition I’ll employ
to blitz the bitch with. Soon,
I shall unleash war, my bombs,
the full shebang—she’ll perish
under my afflictions then
and you’ll begin to touch me again.
—Shawn Nacona Stroud
Previously appeared in Issue # 66 of Down Dirty Word