The Fuck You Triolet
This body, mine, used an exotic code
you couldn't crack. I didn't want to fuck you -
at least, until you stripped to skin and showed
you couldn't crack, I didn't.
Want to fuck? you
said and split me, fissure in the road
that wouldn't fill. Then we became unstuck: you,
this body. Mine used exotic code
Crack? I didn't want to. Fuck you.
He pressed his delicate weight
against my bare skin; his tender
differentness caressed my thigh, innocent,
somehow necessary: we were children
wanting warmth, or I
was dying from a lack of being
touched. I parted my lips, had to
steal a taste of that delicious
cheek-flesh. He said my violent
mouth meant he
deserved to come inside, be sheltered.
The serpent opened me; it was all
over very quickly, though the wound
bleeds again each month. I don't know
anything about an apple.
After Masturbating In The Tub
Maybe the best part
is the touching afterward;
you run your soapy hands
all over your wet skin,
the smooth pebbles of your hips,
the soft swell of your belly,
loving all of yourself equally.
No one looks anxiously
at a clock, clears a throat,
is already—in mind—moving on.
There is only you
and the perfectly discreet
bath water, cooling
gradually, from steamy
to the exact temperature
of a human body: yours.
© 2006 Anna Evans
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