Sexy is not
sitting in the Planned Parenthood office
with their industrial blue carpeting and
hastily-painted beige walls
(though the trim is bright-white, and the pale maple furniture
slightly cheery)
waiting to go pee in a cup and be pronounced
Positive or Negative
or put my feet in the stirrups and feel the long q-tip
swab tender places deep inside my gut
until I want to squeeze the exam table paper to shreds like
tiny parade-day confetti lilting to the unforgiving tile floor
but I bite my lip and try to breathe…
“Standard STD screen,” the nurse passes the slides to the assistant.
That’s my life, right there, I want to say- and I don’t want it back with any changes!
Just give me back the same, please, pronounced all Negative, thanks.
Breathe.
Sexy is
you and me
legs twisted like stripes on a peppermint stick
sheets a tangled cotton rosette
at the end of the bed, damp and fresh
voices soft and husky, touches gentle
as a spider’s leg looking for the next footfall on a blade of grass
and we lie here marinating in our own sweet juices-
time slower than pouring molasses to make gingerbread-
soft blue spaces filled with dozing
and the reassuring pressure of
your arm across
my hip.
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