The Testicles Of My Imaginary Husband

Husband, someone packed
                            your groceries poorly;
               one saddlebag

hangs low. I palm it,
                            feel your merchandise
               move. I like to see you

bunch, uneven
                            inside your jeans.
               Let me rub the cloth,

hear you catch your breath.
                            You own the luggage,
               but I am the tourist here.

Let me hold your bags again,
                            wrinkled and hairy,
               dark and prophetic.

I like the way they tighten
                            at my touch:
               the power of resurrection

is at my fingertips.