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Gender & Sexualityexpand_moreNow the scalpel is slippery; how will I know where to make the cuts?
Throwing the El Camino into drive, he roared down the mountain road.
Sometimes in sunlight the scar shines, skin smooth and tight.
She alone knew how he could be swept up, tender interior laid bare.
You have to be three times better than the white kids, at everything.
there was a boy made of bad teeth & a boy made of stale bread
Sex is the closest we can come to touching where touch resides.
Eyes wide open, I offer myself to a new boy and watch him grow.
“Dorm whores” his roommate calls them. They come for the booze.
Her hips, her pelvis, broke free of concerns. His eyes hovered.
The most arcane sexual practices could arouse me from my torpor.
She was the idiot who fell in love with some high-class gigolo.
He felt desperate for the rains, mosquitoes be damned.
The thing was, I didn’t care what I ate in front of a woman. Every day, I told her things I would have been too embarrassed to tell anyone else.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips unfolding like a cotton napkin.
Teddy, the new sous chef, is on fire again. It’s the second time in a week. I make a silent promise to myself never to have sex on a beach, not even with Ryan Gosling.
Collage what we can, form fractured and repaired, blend of is and isn’t.
I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.
It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.
Truth, it seems, spills from movies and sitcoms in the wires’ wake.
Years after the Sisters of the Holy Names left you unlock the door.
There was a fish. And then there was the consciousness of robots.
Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry for babies, for husbands.
They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.
I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.
I’m trying to manage my dumb-dumb time machine brain and be here.
From the roof, my husband observed daily a man and a woman having sex.
She pulls quickly on her cigarette and blows it at me through the phone.
The consensus was that all the great writers drank way too much.
It was a Tuesday, so they made love. She thought it was a fair compromise.
