“Come for me baby,” he says,
sending foot soldiers to mark friendly territory
and enemy lines on the cross section of mangled skin
on my right butt cheek. My scar, a deformation,
redecorated, renovated: he feng shuis the permanently stuck hourglass
on my ass when he tells me how much he loves
it because it makes me unique. I ask him to tell me the time,
a physical pun for my hourglass scar.
A smile.
The laughter I’m waiting for does not arrive,
his face is already covered by my pretend; it
feels good, I don’t stop him. It is Sunday morning and we are late for the event and
it feels good, I don’t stop him. It is the morning and my words morph in a magical way
a moan I didn’t mean and I summarize that I do not think
all the things that make us unique
have to be
celebrated.