Can I still say me too if I went willing
into the car, the darkest corner,
crawled eager into the back seat,
laid myself bare on the mattress,
the sheets already twisted
and smelling? Even with my eyes
flung up and wide into the eaves
of the house, the crevices
of the borrowed car,
disembodied even into stars
and sun, indiscriminate moon,
I saw, saw the unswept floor, the dirty
wrappers, the days-old litter
of empty food containers
and drunk-from cups, crusted
with other women’s lips.
But I was taught to offer up
the choicest parts, pass the plate
glistening with meat, say
here, here.
