Poem Under Wear

I was doing all the laundry in the tub.

Weeks passed and I couldn’t squeeze anything else out.

Here’s how I wore my underwear: inside out. Rewound. Reversed.

Here’s how she wore her underwear: without.

What is there left to say.

We chafed.

I cooked our meals naked.

Better the oil splatter my skin than my clothes.

Sexiness was anything not a thong.

Sexiness was on a screen.

When I was sad, I watched Rihanna be herself.

Her little laugh.

Her little pointy sunglasses.

Her monochromatic outfits.

After a knife sharpener, the last thing she bought for me was Rihanna’s underwear.

Full-bottom or cheeky.

Crotchless but not assless.

I grew fearless.

I grew an ass.

I looked so beautiful it made her cry.

After things ended, I regretted nothing.

Except I wanted what she had given me.

Lace, spandex, stretch, carefully selected

exposure.

repair

an Asian pear is like a pear

except more crisp in texture

is like an apple except

brighter, flesh alive

against my teeth. an Asian pear is

never a metaphor.

always a hybrid. I learn

you are what you eat,

and I learn

people don’t want to eat

anything that reminds them

of the body. the body

is like a pear

or like an apple

except brighter, flesh alive

against my teeth. she says

your body is like soup

because it warms

my hands. I like that

because I believe my body

takes new shape

depending on who is holding.

not like anything else

in her hands, I am a body

spilling out of itself.