Strange Bedfellows : When This Is All Over
When This is All Over
I’m going to tell about the boy
who forced himself on me
in New York City. Tell how
in a vacant storefront, daylight
squashing shadow to surface
across Avenue A, he fisted
my tongue, twisted my limbs,
closed his eyes. Tell that after-
wards I bled and lied. I’m going
to tell about the man who seated
himself next to me at a lavish
west coast wedding. How he
stroked me through dinner speeches,
gardened tables draping him
in damask in scent,
flutes filling throats, his warm hand
under my linen dress, opening
wordlessly fingering skin.
I was there with someone else
but lay awake years wanting him.
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