She was not a charity girl
with her Ardmore, Oklahoma
drawer full of pieces—an oyster
puckered and ready to give
lust for socialism, blush for thighs.
When I pitched my voice to
the swing set’s rusted upper swivel
each rock an ultrasound scrape
her bra straps beat like summer whispers
her abiding velvet in solitaire
there are many ugly bumps
on my body. there is only
that red abrasion: Hymenoptera
medical jargon for wasp sting
rising from her belly button.
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