I uncurl the decimate white frame
you keep skinnied
to land parts
and grit my jaw
at the sallow belly lumped
below your
ribs,
ruck up the waxen
hips to the
pale moan
complaining my stubble
is scratchy against the
thighs shyly
bulging the blow-up mattress;
until you sit up,
your collarbone emerging from your breast
like a willow root swelling from dry grass—
you say you are a virgin
in a voice that is angry.
I give your body
clothes for sleep.
a white undershirt
and blue shiny athletic shorts—a poor joke, I know,
because you played soccer when
you were three
and stopped
when the boys got bigger than you.
