A Room Full of Men

and I’m the only woman. This is a school. I am 1/3 of a teaching team; me and two men: an educational threesome. So scandalous, even thinking it. The student body is 98% male. Tech college: all programmers. So I’m seeing an ex-student. Sure he’s younger, blond, freckled—but not a baby. Grown. Two adults. (Con)sensual. Male (age: 22). Female (age:25). When I say it that way, it doesn’t sound so obscene. Some (school-boy fantasy) porno. Such a naughty teacher. Although the first kiss didn’t come until well after he received final grades. I didn’t want to be that (woman they beat off to) teacher. Although it’s impossible not to become her: as soon as I walk away, their eyes follow my flesh’s every movement. My lover (someone on the inside) told me. Not (all) the staff, but the students; the men—some staff, some ex-students—thought my unmarried co-worker was nailing me. Fuck it: I’ll be a slut (in day dreams, in urinal talk, in Penthouse letters) no matter what, whether I wear turtle necks and tunics, burlap sacks, a bonnet, never have a boyfriend, never make eye contact with men. Let them wonder (stares won’t slump my shoulders): am I wearing panties underneath this cotton dress?

Mama’s Ruby Ring

At 4, I asked Mama as she washed me if
I could have the ruby ring flowering
diamond petals when she died.
Hushed, she scrubbed and said yes.

Could I have the ruby ring flowering
a blood drop, waved in sweet water?
Hushed, she scrubbed and said yes.
The thought of her ring,

a blood drop waved in sweet water:
the moment I became human.
The thought of her ring
is an anchor to

the moment I became human.
Remembering Mama’s mortality
is an anchor to
personal responsibility.

Remembering her mortality
as she scrubbed my breastless chest—her
personal responsibility—
she was surprised by her baby.

As she scrubbed my breastless chest, her
hands became her mother’s;
Mama’s surprised by her baby
when she tells the story.

Her hands became her mother’s:
the palm lines that tell our future.
When Mama tells the story
the patterns of my fingerprints are

the palm lines that tell our future.
If my hands become unfamiliar,
the patterns of my fingerprints are
lost, and the ruby is just a rock.

My Lover Leaves for the Weekend

He touched me so much
I don’t know my own fingers.
For a few days, I like that he’s gone.
I haven’t soaked since he left.
Deep and oval, my tub is built for two.
When I sit between his legs,
my back against his chest,
we are a perfect fit.

A crinkled, floating hair
sneaks underneath my fingernail
and I’m reminded of his grazing fingers,
idling in thatches, lazing in the brush.
If I cut the grass my oasis will run dry
and the animals will go extinct.

I split at my fault line and burrow
to the center of the earth,
imagining he’s here:
wet dreadlocks like slugs
slide across my shoulders
as he turns his head to kiss
the other side of my neck;
no bites, no blood: thick kisses
made slick with orchid oil.
My slow sigh exhales his image,
fogging over the mirror.
I’ve drenched the empty
bathroom in his memory.
By the time he comes back,
it will have evaporated.

A Case for Living in Sin

Life’s been beachy since babyhood; grew up in Hollywood, Florida, the ‘hood of sandy mangrove hands where bridalhood doesn’t beach well: the tan of frying pans beaches full belly bodies scathed on the kitchen-beach reef. A bridegroom spells doom at the beachfront ball: tall, tuxed, full of nuts—mansome, handsome, but bad at beach ball. Can’t play the game chain linked, gold-ring synced. A ball and chain is not a jolly volley; a name’s sent over the net. Mrs. ain’t a simple title, or a pimple, pock mark, son spot hot for a little man’s ‘hood. Who has an address at Sand Castle Strip? Single Sally selling seashells by the seashore, that’s who.