Boy at the bar: he
mentions my nose. I know he
thinks about fucking. (make a mark on my bed-
post for the what-ifs. Nick my collarbone with the sex
that could have.)
Hips like Willendorf, he thinks of a baby on my
arm, breasts twice as big. I am the snake eating
the lizard; woman eating the man.
But he has had practice with drunk crescendos; he
croons about my perfection. perfection. perfection. I sip
the bourbon - the deep history I need.
Everything is holy and so
on and so on. And so on.