On making love with a man who assures me we are not making love
Rough hands press on my navel to feel the thrust of cock
inside me, my body numb, pinprick of nerves in climax.
The glass of Honey Jack emptied and crushed under the bed.
I feel the need to make sure you know when you’re with a man
he ought to please you he says. His sweaty chest, cartoon tattoo,
matted hair self-congratulatory. When I tell him I’ve never
held a man inside me like this, he says Good thing I’m huge,
says I need to be pleased, tells me about pain, what I deserve.
You think I don’t know this already I say. He puts on a record,
says I’ve made so much love to this. He looks away from my body,
the sweat on my breasts, while Charlie Brown Christmas plays.
When he says love I know he doesn’t mean me, naked. Not
my body—dry winter skin, legs shaved, hips starved.
When he stares at me, my blackout haze, I mumble: Had I held
him in the shower, had he said I’m too drunk for this to save me
the humiliation as I kneeled before him? My red crop top,
its rhinestones spelling Sexy across my chest? Had I said
I remembered steam, our skin pink in heat? It’s no use. I sleep.
I dream of snowfall and lilies. Lips rubbed clean with brown sugar
and honey. In the morning, when I slide my hands up his back,
it is not to appeal to him. I am saying Help, do you know where I am?
AM Ringwalt is a writer and musician (Anne Malin) currently studying in Boston, Massachusetts. Her words appear in Rogue Agent, Vinyl, Talking River and DUM DUM Zine: Punks and Scholars. "Like Cleopatra," Ringwalt's debut poetry chapbook, was published by dancing girl press in 2014.