it’s how
the arch of his face
fits under her nape
how
the warmth of his hand
oozes into her stomach
travels to her bum
to the base of her spine
it’s the memory
of brassiere, boxers,
and legs
of heartbeats racing
back muscles uncoiling
of a body to be read
and of parting
before
they
lose
control

if i weren’t so stupid enough,
i’d be a trust-your-instincts kind of girl

wear a screaming yellow shirt with
“there is danger from all men” sign

question the honesty of a man
by his whispers and mysterious smiles

never trust a sane person downstairs
or even the official spokesman on tv

and know that God will not
give me anything i can’t handle–

if i weren’t so stupid enough.