What Can I Tell You That You Don’t Already Know?
by Barbara Lawhorn
A boy I knew in high school sends me my first sext,
and reading, over coffee, the next morning, early-early
I find his decades old desire to fuck me
sideways unconvincing and consider instead
what we all know at 2:36 a.m. if we aren’t sleeping,
dreaming. In that lonely hour shadows
elongate. Consume. We all wantwantwant
to be fuckable. I reply honestly, shaping my disinterest
with as much kindness as I can muster first cup. Meaning not
interested in him fucking me sideways. I am interested in hands, just
not his, and mouths and the indentation where thigh and ass fuse. In
bodies and sighing, aching sounds. Caverns of smell. The tender spaces
that never get touched. I am going to die. I don’t want to look
at my phone to get turned on. My clavicle has emerged
like the outline of a violin. I want expert fingers to play
the bone. My rib cage wants to house tropical birds.
Maybe I should have written:
I don’t need anyone to alight an opera--my clitoris, a soprano
who holds the note until the whole world shudders. Motherfucker,
it ain’t rocket science, for real.
Isn’t it all about the brief scarcity of alighting? That sacred
millisecond after the song ends and before palms turn pink, aflame
with applause, no one making eye contact because the most essential
part of each individual is gonegonegone? All of us fucking flying.
and reading, over coffee, the next morning, early-early
I find his decades old desire to fuck me
sideways unconvincing and consider instead
what we all know at 2:36 a.m. if we aren’t sleeping,
dreaming. In that lonely hour shadows
elongate. Consume. We all wantwantwant
to be fuckable. I reply honestly, shaping my disinterest
with as much kindness as I can muster first cup. Meaning not
interested in him fucking me sideways. I am interested in hands, just
not his, and mouths and the indentation where thigh and ass fuse. In
bodies and sighing, aching sounds. Caverns of smell. The tender spaces
that never get touched. I am going to die. I don’t want to look
at my phone to get turned on. My clavicle has emerged
like the outline of a violin. I want expert fingers to play
the bone. My rib cage wants to house tropical birds.
Maybe I should have written:
I don’t need anyone to alight an opera--my clitoris, a soprano
who holds the note until the whole world shudders. Motherfucker,
it ain’t rocket science, for real.
Isn’t it all about the brief scarcity of alighting? That sacred
millisecond after the song ends and before palms turn pink, aflame
with applause, no one making eye contact because the most essential
part of each individual is gonegonegone? All of us fucking flying.
Barbara Lawhorn is an Assistant Professor at Western Illinois University. She's into literacy activism, walking her dog, Banjo, running, baking and eating bread, and finding the wild places, within and outside. Her most recent work can be found at The Longleaf Pine, BLYNKT, Nebo: A Literary Magazine, and Naugatuck River Review. Her favorite creative endeavors are her kids, Annaleigh and Jack.
