I.
 
The civil air raid sirens signal
your breaching of the water. Helicopters
track you buzzkilling your way downtown to my apartment,
to get yours.

Good lord. You will ride.
You will feel loved.

II.

I feel love with every molten lava strip of your tongue,
creating new land,
down my stomach. Marking what is yours.

A warning. A domestic threat.

III.

I hate you and your devastation,
but I lie in my bed naked
and engorged
everytime I hear the sirens.