On Being 34

when I lie flat on my back
I tend to put my hand on my belly
sort of move it around and search
for those pelvic bones of pre-1996
before I ballooned in maternal
awe and willed my skin to accommodate

in my search there is this sense
nothing pre-1996 was of any importance
not even my young bones
that were once humped by
that one girl in college, the dark
one with eyes like sage and a voice
like honey, amber and slow
as she whispered that she couldn’t
help it, she just couldn’t help it

If you wonder what she is to you

in the June stickiness, amid the stink of gloves
blood and mouse droppings behind the mats
where the radio shouts words of humpin’ and grindin’
the image that makes your mouth spread into
something like a smile when the big toothless
can collecting Broadway man asks,
whatcho thinkin ‘bout, fighter girl?

roadside, pulled over for some shut eye
at midnight, after starving all day and fighting
just for that high you get when you’ve beaten
an eatin’ kind of girl, when the eyelids
thank you for not being blackened
and curse you for not letting them close
the laugh you hear when you succomb

under a single sheet, used for comfort not warmth
on that couch you’ve been surfing on the last 4 days
shaking and teeth grinding as you cuss yourself
just before you jump up, grab the keys and go
into one a.m. to meet demons and make purchases
you lie about and mistake for errands, it’s
the voice you hear saying damn, love yourself
the way I do