By ERICA DAWSON
I deserve a steed for this. This ride. The sex
that didn’t need bodies. No straining hip
craned nearly out its socket. Not one flex.
There’s a way to lick your lip
without moving your tongue. You have to get
down on your knees. Your hands will get dirty.
The rain on April grass is warm. Just let
it flick you.
I am only half of thirty
but my body had its way with me, much less
violent than you would think. A kind of shame.
Was there a change? Was I branded a new
woman? Was I a woman yet? Although I chew
myrrh now, the resin hot, I hold my stress
in both my shoulders. That, too, stayed the same.
Erica Dawson is the author of two collections: The Small Blades Hurt, winner of the 2016 Poets’ Prize, and Big-Eyed Afraid, winner of the 2006 Anthony Hecht Prize. She is an associate professor of English and Writing at the University of Tampa, and director of UT’s low-residency MFA program in creative writing.