I hear things, like, that burnout who held another
by the river, by the neck? He didn't love her.
He told Feck he stopped her breath to stop her talking
shit; it made him feel alive. I've never been.
To seem like other girls, I wear a dress
and when Feck (that's my fella) lifts
me up, I dance. My bones are air; my lips designed
to whistle how a nice girl won't. The skinned
fish of my tongue can't feel his kiss, and that,
I think, is best. When Feck (he's crying) casts
my body to the river, I'm grateful for the chance
to rest and travel. Wind tickles my feet until I dance,
and currents lift me even higher than
I got when Feck and I first met: He held my neck
in both his hands and bent my nozzle with
his teeth, exhaling hard: wishes filled
me to the seams; I almost popped, and Feck
looked almost human then. He kissed my head
while my eyes wept (what love, what tenderness)
a sky of sinsemilla clouds across the bed.