BY LUCY WAINGER
There was a boy, a bathroom.
I don’t want to talk about that.
I want to talk about the girls I kissed in Texas.
The cuter one was fat, Christian, an astrophysicist,
the other one had a cross burned into her
hand. I want to talk about the boy
(fat, too, but not as cute) who said that if I was
going to run my fingers under the water fountain
until I was ready to stick them in an electrical socket,
I should at least kiss him first.
I don’t want to think about three Marches ago,
dumb and drunk on gasoline beer, the four mouths
that congealed like lard to mine, the way I picture myself
gasping, a fish in crude oil, the way I didn’t pull away.
What I want now is a boyfriend
with a mouth like a black hole.