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smarter strangers than me
have calloused hands
but I’m mostly untouched these days
loup-mouthed and riveted
by east village erotica
salsa night has middle-aged colombians
that dance their one-two-three-four me, a
hipless girl getting spun —
classic!
on top of a mountain older than god
pissing in a bottle and jiggling dry they say
wield a knife, leave no wrappers —
foreign country’s backroad saint
every night for six months I was
inverted
and eaten
until the meds kicked in rot-mushy eyes
pity greatly that I’m
my mother’s daughter
but I say no! I am kind
to animals
and sometimes men
why’d you open me up?
why did you leave the wrapper?
there was something glittering
that everyone desired but now
it’s gone
and perverts and sailors and deadbeat moms
are lecturing me on morality
ughhh!
at least quartzite
has no warm, slushy guts to disappoint
I don’t remember the first time I got called a slut but I
remember the first time I cared
midtown west: shiny white apartment
getting the brakes beat off me by a swiss economist
my scab heel’s bandaid caught
on a sandal strap and there was some blood
no, no
it was on a highway in costa rica
with you
didn’t bolt when I should have
conventional wisdom being that when the weight bears down, go limp
that’s my sin these days, the enduring limpness
I learn altitudes and I learn the local slurs and I hope
to be metamorphic, pressed into something smoother
worthy, even
