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Charlotte Covey: body

September 6, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

my body is a rabid dog
they need to put down. my body is pert
tits, tight ass. my body is an apology:
a fragile thing that rips like slip dress, sutured
wound. my body is a temple, burning. i can feel them stir
beneath their jeans. i can feel them circle me, snarling, slobber
to my ear, my neck, my chest. i can hear them saying, this bitch
is in heat. i can feel the taunt of their
mouths just behind my ear.
my body is a haunting, new
york alley after dusk. a crumbled headstone fifty years
past anyone who knows it. my body is
a drinking game. an ache that sneaks and catches
me. my body is a last-call mistake, lights reflecting
in slurred drink. my body says, i can’t
do this. says, i’m going to
give out one of these days. my body always watches
the razor sink, opens its tired mouth for each angry
frown. my body is too
soft. too hard. too giving. too frigid. my body doesn’t know
what to say, doesn’t know how to take. my body gives
till it breaks, memorizes every man, every time. my body is always
begging. my body turns
black from the inside out, forgets
to right itself when they’re finished. my body only knows
how to take. to lie
still, accept
their release.

Filed Under: Issue 102, Poetry, Poetry 102 Tagged With: Charlotte Covey

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