📃 Daily(ish) poem → 00318 ◊ Playboy ◊ Sierra Golden
Playboy
Pete’s grandfather spent 43 days
lost at sea. Found dead, he held
his cock and a photo of Meemaw.
Now, Meemaw won’t let go of Pete’s
wrist as he ducks out the door, headed
for the market where nobody minds
if he cops a feel of the peaches.
Later, the hairdresser at Curl Up ’n Dye
fondles his ear lobes, his jaw line,
and some girl on local news escapes
her flaming house because Bobo
the dog dialed 911 with his nose.
The footage shows her rubbing
his jowls as if they might alchemize.
She sobs, We sleep together every night,
and with each shot Pete wishes
he were the dog licking her toes,
twisting belly up to be rubbed.
He carries these women with him,
their tongues and cheeks, small
humps of shoulders and knees.
So what? His head rattles with lust.
He’s got nothing, and he’s asking,
Don’t we all burn to be touched?
—Sierra Golden
—found in The Slow Art (2018)