.

A rejection letter, sealed


To be frank,
my sexual wavelength
is confused.
It's anywhere but here. Maybe
tomorrow, in space
or laying flat in Icelandic tundra
after a sneeze. Or maybe we can
do it in New York or while feeding
ducks. Or maybe never. Somewhere else,
not in this flesh next to you
or anyone in this bed, red sheets
or not.

My own history leads
me to examine my
sexual prowess; my selfish performance
like a predator. I am who Cosmo
says a woman should be: hard to get,
playing mysterious. I didn't ask for this.
I am real. Instead, I am a lioness
who already ate. There is nothing there,
no mystery, no embedded story.
Cosmo has exploited my character.

Yet, there were still men who believed
that one day I would come back to Earth
for their big dicks and pancakes in the morning.

I am just bold enough to say
that spreading my disease like pollen
is about as American as leaving your flag
swaying town. Maybe one day
I'll send it off in rocket ships,
in the streets of India, in a painting;
everywhere I have never been. But,
if you ask me now I can't say that in this time
and space I would care or want to create
anything but these words.