by Catie Rosemurgy

    1

    Thank god he stuck his tongue out.

    When I was twelve I was in danger

    of taking my body seriously.

    I thought the ache in my nipple was priceless.

    I thought I should stay very still

    and compare it to a button，

    a china saucer，

    a flash in a car side-mirror，

    so I could name the ache either big or little，

    then keep it forever. He blew no one a kiss，

    then turned into a maw.

    After I saw him， when a wish moved in my pants.

    I nurtured¹ it. I stalked around my room

    kicking my feet up just like him， making

    a big deal of my lips. I was my own big boy.

    I wouldn't admit it then，

    but be definitely cocks his hip²

    as if he is his own little girl.

    2

    People ask me——I make up interviews

    while I brush my teeth——"So， what do you remember best

    about your childhood？" I say

    mostly the drive toward Chicago.

    Feeling as if I'm being slowly pressed against the skyline.

    Hoping to break a window.

    Mostly quick handfuls of boys' skin.

    Summer twilights that took forever to get rid of.

    Mostly Mick Jagger.

    3

    How do I explain my hungry stare？

    My Friday night spent changing clothes？

    My love for travel？ I rewind the way he says "now"

    with so much roof of the mouth.

    I rewind until I get a clear image of myself：

    I'm telling the joke he taught me

    about my body. My mouth is stretched open

    so I don't laugh. My hands are pretending

    to have just discovered my own face.

    My name is written out in metal studs

    across my little pink jumper.

    I've got a mirror and a good idea

    of the way I want my face to look.

    When I glance sideways my smile should twitch³

    as if a funny picture of me is taped up

    inside the corner of my eye.

    A picture where my hair is combed over each shoulder，

    my breasts are well-supported， and my teeth barely show.

    A picture where I'm trying hard to say "beautiful."

    He always says "This is my skinny rib⁴ cage，

    my one， two chest hairs."

    That's all he ever says.

    Think of a bird with no feathers

    or think of a hundred lips bruising⁵ every inch of his skin.

    There are no pictures of him hoping

    he said the right thing

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