I would’ve done anything because it’s love, right?
I would’ve clipped my peaches in quarters and
fed them to the parrots hoping they’d mimic
their sweetness.
I would’ve sucked his dick because he asked
and because that is romance.
I would’ve stomped the ground, shoes and all,
just to recognize how my body rises against his
when anger is all that we have left.
I would’ve taken off his shirt and made it sensual.
I would’ve spoken into the fan’s spinning blades
in hopes it got my point across.
I would’ve bottomed and I’d declare it unforgettable but
I would’ve known the truth and let my shoulders
slouch. I’d call that love too.
I would’ve traced my index finger
along the crease of his crotch and he’d have gone crazy.
I would’ve put that same finger across my naval, then stomach,
and say This is where I’m empty.
I would’ve said Action and now we’re in a movie,
and I’m Drew Barrymore because isn’t that irresistible.
I would’ve bitten into the already bitten peach
hoping I could come across more sweeter;
more in place; more just right; more body ready and willing.
I would’ve read him some telling poetry.
I would’ve softened my edges.
I would’ve handed the knife over and said Aqui mismo,
but the power would have gone out and
I would’ve been reminded, again, of powerlessness.
I would’ve never allowed him to advance a few spaces.
I would’ve pointed to my chest and said Empty and Fill, but
I would’ve been allowed to not sexualize that for a moment.
I would’ve done anything but didn’t.
I would’ve flapped my wings and fluttered off.
I would’ve reminded myself over and over and over
that which I did not deserve.
I would’ve used absolutes sparsely, almost never.
I would’ve said My body, my body, my body.
I would’ve allowed my body to reject his hand
over my mouth. I would’ve done anything.
Poetry - ISSUE #27