I tried once.
Held a pillow gently over her mouth.
She threw it at me
and said don’t you dare muffle me.
She wants the world to hear it and the world obliges,
The neighbors have resigned to the stages,
Of her orgasm like the five stages of grief,
First denial, then anger, then belief.
Pillow over her face is not an option, she has made that clear,
Pillow over her face, she wants to hear,
Herself at maximum volume ricocheting off the walls,
Pillow over her face, she has the balls,
To tell the landlord that her sex life is protected under free expression,
Pillow over her face, no suppression.
She moans at the volume most people reserve for emergencies,
The building has adapted to the frequencies,
Like a coastal town adapts to hurricanes, they know the drill,
She starts around ten and by the kill,
Shot of the evening she is hitting notes that rattle dishes,
Pillow over her face, she dismisses.
Every attempt at volume control like it is an insult to her body,
She says the volume is the proof of something shoddy,
Being done right, and if I do it well enough the screams,
Should wake the dead and rupture the seams,
Of whatever thin partition separates us from the world outside,
Pillow over her face, she has her pride.