Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 8

I ooze honey

from my tongue

into a tiny bowl

made of chocolate

and set it in the sun

to warm

is how a poet might say I love you, but I

just want to say I like the way you waved

to that kid at the park and asked permission

to hold my hand. A poet might be embarrassed to tell you

they drove six hours off their route back home

for your three-hour date, or that they sobbed

as they drove away, or how when you held them

in the community garden with your eyes on their face,

time and space became real things

they cared to ignore.

If I were a poet, I might be embarrassed to tell you

I jerked off that night thinking about your hands, between my

cousin’s Paw Patrol sheets. Because what

kind of freak does that?