Why is it like death / to lose it down by the river / in the back seat of a car?
Image: Unsplash’s Cherry
Once She’s Lost It
for Tara
“I think sex is overrated.”—Audrey Hepburn
Does a girl really choose it,
even after she becomes a bleeder?
Why does she lose it,
after that first drilling?
And how can she know for sure
that she was willing?
If she hisses on a hot bed of kisses,
and he pries her legs apart,
why will she remember it
as if he gave her his heart?
Does the fear of innocence shine
on her face like a yield sign?
Is she an invitation
waiting to be mailed?
Perhaps this world is an anvil,
and she is just a horseshoe
to be heated up,
hammered out,
and nailed.
What is it?
Why is it like death
to lose it down by the river
in the back seat of a car?
Maybe it’s that she can never
get it back—it’s not like
a knife wound that heals smooth
even if it leaves a scar.
~ ~ ~
From Turtle Woman & Other Poems
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