(rewrite)

sometimes both the men i love
stand in the same room, touch
shoulders.

sometimes they take bits of food
from each other’s plates, order
the same dessert.

sometimes they offer more wine too often,
smear the tablecloth’s red stains
with their elbows.

when they both reach for the last drink
from the thin necked bottle,
their knuckles sound like stone on stone.

when they both touch my knees
beneath the table, i cover
my lap with the unfolded napkin.

sometimes i wish i knew better.

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