to my [married] professor *

sure, you leave,

and you do not kiss me,
but before i go, woman

you will.
go ahead, shy away
from color on my lips,
i don’t need to make my
mark visible;
i know where i have been:

up on your classroom table, flat on my
back
you bending between
my thighs, worshiping some-
thing your catholicism has
refused

to explain.
silently closing(&locking)
the door, speaking in breathless
murmurs,
the thrill
of getting
away with it.
you play it cool
but i notice things:

your insistent gaze,
the fact that,
this time

you did not wash the scent of me
off your face.





*B.A. senior thesis poem

yes it's a (mostly) true story. no, it didn't happen at the college i graduated from. nevertheless, it horrified them a bit; so naturally, i read it for senior presentation day.

concrete details *

i.
in absence, lieu

of razorblades,
the fingernails, which peel away
from the curve
of forearm
led by fingers so stiff they clench
into claws
reveal angry, torn crescents
which, though white at first,

begin to weep
drip
onto the paper kept
to
make sure this isn’t
a dream.
this is my reality.


a day or two would see claret
turn
to brown stains.
they
smelled salty, slightly,
and reeked
of iron.

the aroma would last,
stick
around,
become synonymous
with the
living death
that consumed my life
for eight years

even when, cleansing my closet
of my past,

i find paper,
blood-soaked, puckered
and bearing the faint scent of
tears.



ii.

as my arms still bled,
running red, the
janitor, walking in
the door spots my tangled limbs
sprawling on the cold
brown tile floor
of the last stall,
knocks, twice, a
hesitant rap on the
hollow steel graffiti-scrawled door

takes one step, two, tries
the handle

i coerce my wooden
limbs, shift,
grab
for toilet paper, stuff in sleeve,
pull shirt over
my hand

sniff loudly, mimic the tears
i can’t cry

“you okay?” she asks, and
i say yeah,
fine
feel better now.





*B.A. senior thesis poem