He’s a kid: Goofy. Baggy
clothes, glasses
tipping, ponytail slipping
out of its band, as if it never meant
to be there, arms and legs not committing
to being anywhere. How did he get here?
He interrupts me, shrugs and giggles, shirttail
untucked, dawdles at my door
till I let him in.
                             But when his clothes come off, so does
all that. Skin phosphorescent with pure
intention, eyes with the sheen of
light on water, he holds
to what he wants, and he wants
me, the way summer wants
to come again, the way the Terminator wants
Linda Hamilton dead.
                                      Me, I think a man, just for being
secretly and shockingly
beautiful, should get what he wants, so I serve myself up,
a half-moon of melon curving
on the cool white plate of my bed.
And oh, how his fingers
twist in my hair. How he tells me my own name
so I’ll never forget.
                                      And when he goes out later, half
slip, half swagger, back to the offhand,
half-assed world, I sit here, still buzzy,
horny, humming. Next door some bluesy woman croons
that if she can’t have love, she’ll die. I wonder:
did I just get loved,
or diminished? And if I peel off my last
apology, can I stand to be this