I want to say it’s a banana or a potato
being peeled, the slow curl and reveal,
but such a bland yellow thing.
I want to say it’s a shirt from a drawer,
a billow of purple and Bounce,
but it’s sweat and crumple in a pile.
I want to say it’s a virgin’s fantasy first,
soft hall light and Harlequin,
tender and gasp as they keen and grasp.
I say tender but mean tinder:
a birch tree stripped of its bark,
doused with lighter fluid, flame exposed.
I say exposed but mean explode:
a shrapnel of four-martinis,
a face reflected as pale and abhor.
When I say abhor I mean whore,
for FICA and retirement,
food and rent.
When I say rent I mean rend.
When I say rend I mean rend.