by Risa Denenberg
The way it began:
Ash sky followed
by lemon sorbet
dogged and bowed.
And how it turned
to mirth, rebirth.
How all winter I longed
for drug-free vitamin D.
I can’t remember
when a summer
licked me so utterly dry
with its forked tongue
so eagerly cuddled
my crown and crooned —
there will be another
I thought I was done.
I didn’t know this body could want more.
But it has been secretly gathering gametes, see
this lock of hair, these nail clippings?
For you. One more exploit please, and then, fine,
I’ll quit. Put me out to pasture.
I don’t intend to keep you. I’ll ask your spouse:
can’t she be spared for the length of a birdcall?
Remember when I stood outside your dorm
in a snowstorm? When you tortured me
with dreadful verse? Still, after all these years,
I’ve saved this drop of wetness for you.
Risa Denenberg is a co-founder and editor at Headmistress Press, publisher of lesbian/bi/trans poetry. She publishes poetry book reviews at the Rumpus and other venues and curates The Poetry Café, an online meeting place where poetry chapbooks are reviewed. She has published three full length collections of poetry, most recently, “slight faith” (MoonPath Press, 2018).