| Woman in His Rearview Mirror | and | When the Smoke Clears |
| Woman in His Rearview Mirror |
i have been the good time in the backseat, for taxi
drivers who ricochet their gaze off crooked mirrors
destination: to the place a woman is most
woman
is most what shade of shame a
man believes his woman should be a
soft strong enough to hold this
moment
with shoulders acute angles to make him feel
more man
because i am in his backseat and he is
steering right when navigation says left
turn thoughts upside down in da vinci
paranoia
i lick the questions off my
bottom lip i have been a good
time i should know not to lick my
lips like this
he is tossing 21 questions over his
shoulders 45 mph i juggle them in
woman hands when he is speaking to
me words like lectures words heavy
like definitions
says you are very mature this is not my
vocabulary just synonyms for staring at
stacked thighs he cannot grip in one hand
the control of direction so tighten pale
knuckles around animal skin
stripped from lambs until they are virgin
pink humility brimming where little girl
smiles hide I am under your nails and
gripped like a sacrifice to the men
hovering over me
in place we are parallel parked outside doors i do not
recognize
the gps a woman a soft strong woman telling
him in words that are sandpaper tissues
u-turn u-turn you turn 18 soon,
right?
| When the Smoke Clears |
His back door -- a portal into this world of
20-something men loving something-teen girls
who got jeans so tight they can’t breathe, inherited
whore’s lungs not made to hold no’s and those
hand-me-down hips too wide for Cosmo covers
they meet between. Smoke in basement of her
body, exhales through the gap her swollen thighs
make when he climbs the stairs her ribs form to
escape. Clank teeth together in clumsy kisses,
mouths dry, tongues hooked in question marks,
lips peeling like sun-burnt skin and picnic oranges.
** Slip the cotton flowers
through our teeth like valentines
in grade-school lockers.