Somewhere in my stomach
there’s a basement
of old men attending
their 50-year jr high reunion dance,
arguing with each other
about whether the squirrels
in the walls are having sex
or plotting their revenge.
All the uncles who used to call me
a bitch for not wanting to hunt
when I was a kid
are slow dancing with their dead deer,
pouring them a drink,
dabbing at their deer’s
wine-stained fur
with their ties as the last song ends.
My gym coach from seventh grade
who taught sex ed
is sweeping up the bullet shells
scattered around the dance floor.
On the day before summer break,
Mr. Manekee sat on the pointy end
of his football and told my class
that if we make love right,
it’ll feel like catching an interception
and running in a touchdown
as hard and fast as we can.
I had never seen
a woman naked before
or felt the warmth of another’s skin
mixing their freckles with mine,
but I still felt like stabbing
both of my ears
with sharpened pencils
until chunks of my brain
came out on my tongue
after all 23 of the future men
sitting around me
began to roar with laughter,
whistle and cheer for more.
In my chest there is a little boy
blowing on his nails,
waiting for the pink to dry,
about to bust a vein
and lather himself in blood
so his friends won’t find out
how pretty he feels.
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Previously Published on knau.org
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