Sex is a foot, dollar an hour. Tears drop during a March blizzard in New York or Buenos Aires. Late, early snow doesn’t stick until you wake up, dogs bounding around light mounds of cool ground. You run like you need to run. Flurries past, your first skin, not meant to be imperfect, meant to part seas and move mountains, melt deep in crosswalk puddles, each considering another way to get to the grocery store or the bar the poetry reading home the plate, not meant to sustain you, meant to start you off, doesn’t. Light mounds split between you and the guy, arriving one by one, leaving together. You they forget how they remember sex doesn’t sell and “pussy” wrong because men mean weak when they say it to each other. Flurries past, your first pussy, slippery like tears, light like mounds, deep like puddles, unmoved like mountains drawing sex from an hour. One by one they’re killing pussy. You insist on yoni; confused, they ask, “Do you like my c(l)ock?”
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