Why has a man never told me I have a neck
like a crane? I have spider appendages, Daddy Long Legs,
am an Amazon in the right skirt, sure-

They’ve mentioned heart lips and the round
of my hind. Rename me like a perfume,
like sex on two feet,
like walking meat.

No one says: you move
like a breeze. No one says:
your eyes are a swimming peace. Instead,

I am nice ass. I am sufficient tits. I am constructed
into some poster wish, and oh yes, Baby, won’t you wear
those higher heels? That shorter dress?
Bend over, sweetie, like a supple tree,
reach right over.
Just like that, Ma.
       Just.
       Like.
       That.

A man’s never told me: I love your lips
for the words they spill, for the nouns
they round, for how they puff air out pressed
like little irons.

Nor have I heard a word about my ears,
how well they listen to this body-slander,
how they gape themselves like sick synonyms
under-ripe
with sex appeal.

Please tell me, there’s more than smooth skin,
more than a useful tongue and teeth, more than
open legs like open caskets.
Tell me: your collar bone looks like an ark, your hands
like a safe keeping, your hair smells like home
and safe spring passing.

Tell me: your fingers
are for more than pianos
or my penis.

Originally published at The Rampallian.