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| Self-Portrait with Boxing Glove |
Fasha, if it wasn’t for that spoilsport ocean,
the Atlantic, you and I could be boxing
each other’s tits right now – bouncing
leather off the gifts the hormones gave us, leaving
bruises we can photo and admire.
If 4000 miles of sea weren’t keeping us apart
we could be clinching, talking dirty to each other:
you in your Georgia drawl, me in imperious RP,
adding grace notes to the story our two bodies
tell as each one moves against the other,
my white belly spilling over yours,
your black breasts sinking into mine.
If either of us could afford the plane fare,
if I had a burner phone to show the goons from ICE,
if I knew my housemates wouldn’t freak out
at us whaling on each other in my living room,
we could be whaling on each other in my living room,
making our bodies ache, getting exhausted,
working dirtier the longer we go on, until
we uppercut our sexy little secrets,
the parts of us we lied about to doctors at the clinic.
I remember sitting there, saying I’m not that fussed
about sex, I just don’t like the weight, how it fucks
with my lines, how it sits in my underwear, knowing
I could never tell this endocrinologist
I want a cunt so you can punch me in it.
