Weather Balloon

Over and over 
he brings me 
to the edge 
of the bed, 

those penetrating eyes, 
that penetrating hand 
drills into me until 
the pressure mounts 
and builds. I ask,
“Are you into squirting?” 
and his eyes spin wild, 
“Only one way to find out.”
His answer holds
a supplication 
and an offer. 
They tumble 
from his mouth. 
I catch them both,

and I deny them,

holding water back. 
I will not test him.
Better to let him wonder 
in the winter morning slush, 
still a stranger to the rush 
of springmelt flood. 
I am not his lab. I won’t 
be an experiment that fails.