lust sonnet #2

Soon, I’m all about wanting the men
with their sleeves rolled just so.
The shoebox in their linen
closet stuffed with ghosts
and this penchant for fucking
on kitchen floors. Now I’m bourbon
tongued, bedded, flicking
my index finger against the ribbon
I’ve knotted and tied to the bed frame.
I can struggle if you want, can open
my body like a seam, my name
a note taut and hectic as telephone
wire. I could sidle up purring against
your thigh, error in the bend of my wrist.

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