This is called "Why Can't I Leave You."
This is probably self-explanatory.
You stand behind the old black mare, dressed as always
in that red shirt, stained from sweat,
the crying of the armpits that will not stop for anything.
Stroking her rump while the barley goes unplanted.
I pick up my suitcase and set it down
as I try to leave you again.
I smooth the hair back from your forehead.
I think, with your laziness and the drought too,
you'll be needing my help more than ever.
You take my hands, I nod, and go back to the house
to unpack, having found another reason to stay.
I undress and put on my white lace slip
for you to take off, because you like that.
And when you come in, you pull down the straps
and I unbutton your shirt.
I know we can't give each other any more or any less
than what we have.
There is safety in that.
So much that I can never get past the packing,
the begging you to, please, if I can't make you happy,
come close between my thighs and let me laugh
for you from my second mouth.
I don't like that very much.
I don't like it at all, as a matter of fact.