The girls will not wait for you—
you are too slow in taking your
pictures, the ones they said they
will covet at the beginning of
So, I walk ten feet behind them and
thirty-five in front of you,
your blonde bob lost among the
pea-coated and booted surefooted.
I saw both of my roommates’ breasts.
I always looked away right away for
I am ashamed of mine. Sometimes I
wonder if my body did not want me.
Sometimes I concur it did not.
We ask the stranger by 8th Avenue
how to get to Ground Zero. He pulls out
his iPhone, cradling the blue shopping bag
under his wrist, no trace of any scars—unlike
the other handsome man who sat to my right
on the plane. It was broad and long, under his
right thumb—I memorized it while he was sleeping.
The lover of the stranger in front of me is lucky
I think, I feel.
His beard makes me list all the places I am ticklish
the list is not long enough. You frown
at my imaginings.
But I am too weary to unravel the plastic bags—
you are not here to pick up your wife’s t-shirt.
Pink, you told me. Get it in large, you ordered.
But you are not here to hear me tell you
how much I missed you and how much
I think you would like the breasts of the
girl who slept in my bed last night.
We gossiped about the other girl who laughed too easily
at the assistant coach’s whispered jokes. I wonder
how often she remembers her boyfriend
who is studying in another country,
perhaps studying the geography of another
You are not here to feel my chapped lips
crush, crash into yours—I have not forgotten
how they taste of mangoes, juice dripping.
Where else could I find lips like that
in this hemisphere?
I spend hours unpeeling you
With razor sharp teeth that are always complimented
by first-time ignorant admirers.
My smile is much worse than my bite, you muse.
You fuck me until I am left dreaming
of my first time (seeing snow).