When I grow up, I want to be a morning person. I want to drink coffee at reasonable hours, and write when I can and not only when I feel like it. I want to be the kind of person who never pops pimples, because this person is kind, patient, dare I say courageous, and profound (deeply secure). I want to tend to a nursery of plants, my sapling children, and be the kind of mother who consigns old treasures to the trash (hoarding is whoredom). Most of all, I want to be the kind of person who holds where I am and where I want to be with a gentle grip: happy to be.
Stuffed and vomitty,
shall I order things for next year
with these once-in-a-lifetime sales?
“Black Friday should be called
Gift Friday,” said my friend Grace.
We should listen to what she says,
though her voice is often softest.
The stench of sweaty pits,
my stained black shirt in exchange
for spoilt grey sheets.
I left unsatisfied,
a little bewildered, and
a little inspired by brief flashes
of pleasure –
born of your ardent devotion
to the impossible challenge.
Tit for tat,
make up for the first time
when I wanted it to stop and he didn’t.
Your perfect teeth remind of the first
set that grazed my nipples.
You are a do-over of a night
of unresolved tensions,
uncannily familiar, unspooling.
My body refused what my heart confuses:
an entangled love with thrashing legs,
it knew, it knew.
I could’ve taken the couch instead
but I wanted you to ask me to [stay]
come to bed.