Poetry

Girl Stunt Man

Girl

Bed knobs, bra straps, and curse words
when I get my finger caught in the clasp behind your
back – 
so many hooks to contend with.

Maybe sex is overrated.
Maybe the suspense is killing me.

I am caught up in the woven patterns that hold you
together,
the taught flesh, the white sheets with hospital
corners.
I am back at your place amidst college music posters,
foreign film magazines, and casually tossed underwear.

Or maybe it’s all strategic.

I may never get into the fold of wrinkled bedclothes,
even with the diagrams from the Sears catalogue
guiding me,
because in the end,
girl is just another four letter word.

The Stunt Man

You said that I was a man without a country,
perpetually falling, rolling, tumbling
safely into giant blue air bags,
and you didn’t see the danger in any of that,
even if you were
standing on the other side of a burning hoop.

It’s true.
I made my living feigning suicide,
plunging from bridges,
dodging blank bullets – 
and no one would believe me
if it were all to become real.
Honestly,
that’s the only thing that’s deterred me.