All the lines on my body
point to you. Lolling, you accept
this responsibility, the burden
of beacon and beckoning
Rubbing your skin feels like
rubbing a magic lamp,
letting you change my life
in three ways.
One: my parents kicked me out
in the middle of winter. I was
an adult then, but also impure,
they said. Under which wing
would the wide world tuck me?
Your arm was tattooed
and smelled like mint. I,
mimicking sleep, hoped
your own flesh would not
rid itself of art.
Two: someone who knew
someone who had a
crush on you, did a thing
for me and then my work is
in the hands of the most mighty.
They fly us to L.A.
On the beach, your hands are
on my bare stomach,
exploring passively with
tamped down wonder. No mistakes
here, you say when I turn
on my side. All good,
all different,
all generous.
Three: I can’t pin down
the object of your desire, or
as you call it, hot respect.
Do I allow myself to be used by you?
I suspect something within
my cells, in the lamina between
rain and saltwater spray.
You love to debate this, to prove
to me that I can prove to myself
I know my name. I open
my mouth to say my name,
and we share consonants
Each star in my eyes is
a kiss. Each hair on your head
is a manifesto. The skin of us
wants more, takes more
***
Terese Pierre is a Toronto-based writer, editor and organizer.
HAG MAG 