MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER HOUSES THE BOOK OF MORMON

I like worst-case scenarios. She likes the rebellious girls

she masturbates to. I want to bite into them,

juice dribbling down my chin. Where do we go from here?

This adulterous thing you have going on

makes me immune to judgment. It’s like a promise

ring without a ring. It’s just a promise.

You carry Werthers in your purse?

So I can make friends. Would you like one, friend?

She was that kind of girl.

But we don’t have to be geography—neither of us

know the meaning. I scrape your surface, but perhaps

it was only an echo. We don’t know where we’ve been.

We walk through the streets, cut across

the predictability of snow. The first time

you call me Hummel, knot me to a line.

Logic is the philosophical analysis of arguments.

I want to tell you what I couldn’t then:

there’s never a secret not told.

When Ra wept and his tears hit the ground

they turned into honeybees. If I could pick a part of you

to stay: the other woman.