Incubus by E Doyle-Gillespie

I left your wife sprawled
like a broken-backed nymph
across the foot of your
bed.
She breathed heavy
through the wet, twisted
remains of that
expensive hair sculpture
of hers,
and decided to blame the
scars on her new
nails.
She sighed,
still heaving and wet,
pouring salty-sweet
between
spread thighs just like
those hetaera and
the sullen women
in Nantes I used to visit
on nights just like these.
I swore your wife
muttered my name
as I turned to smoke and
filtered back up
the chimney.