The Essence of Women (That Are Straight, So They Say)

Stephanie Darrow, Alumna

Originally Published, Spring 2009

A few days ago she told me about going to the beach alone,
I have this park, its similar.
I can lie down in the grass (not sand)
I can touch the pond water with my finger tips (not sea)
I can stretch for sky like she does alone.
New York, starless. (not ft. Lauderdale beach)
Waterfront properties in proportion to her Dolce and Gabanna’s
Fourteen species of dog reflected off mine.

I saw her after three years
And again she’s gorgeous, and again she’s playing born again bingo,
and again she’s tall, and again she’s Jewish, and again she wants me,
and again she has a boyfriend. What is it!? What is it about these
straight girls

and the way they growl without moving their mouths,
without showing their teeth.
She remembers things from forever ago, more vividly than I,
the recording operations specialist in this circuitry dual project.

We kiss anyway, under the same contract that No one has to know.
She cries like only some women can do, the women I prefer,
who can cry during anything.
And she’s all wet but it doesn’t reach my mouth
before I pull it all away,
no coming and kneeling here.

Sending her back to her boyfriend beach in Florida,
back to barely living, so she says.
Back to being straight,
until we meet again.

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