One Night Celibacy
Sometimes,
I
think
about my
gravestone,
what’ll the
name be?
Who’ll
clean it?
Sometimes,
I think
about
my bones,
are
my hips
shifted?
Will the
anthropologist
who discovers
me tell
people I was a
woman?
Will “woman” and
“man”
mean anything
in the
future?
Sometimes,
I think
about
my skin,
soft
and decayed
by
fungi,
possibly
scrumptious,
sweet
fat cells
filled
with
estrogen.
I’ve
become
ready for
love.
It’s been
hidden in my
vial of
estradiol,
and now I
find it in
the mouth
of my
lover,
deep
inside,
where I desire
for her
to say:
“You look
like a girl.”
