Moving Condiments
I don’t want to live in a world
where a man can’t make love to a willing jar of mayonnaise.
If you’re still a lesbian in the morning,
call me. We have cures.
We have freshly cut deli meats
hanging on hooks.
The bathrooms are empty and waiting for your bodies.
All twelve of them.
You are cold and still sticky enough to stay.
And that first punch,
well I ate it. After that it was the pavement.
And your shoes.
You have friends, that’s enough.
I have a sign, that’s enough.
You cut my hair with a switch blade, you saw
through my fingernails with a hammer.
If the jar is willing, let it.
I put my finger
deep inside its soft cool whiteness
and that too is enough.