 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
Sometimes I’m jealous of myself
the cool me with the whipped creamed breasts at parties
a gin-n-tonic clinging to my hand.
Sure there are other women there
sublime airy creatures who bourree
across rooms without touching the floor
chests and hipbones the same size
and others, heavy and academic,
long earrings like necklaces
wool skirts some army issue from an old war.
I envy how slick I am
my skin sliding off like paint from an unprimed wall
referring to this or that wine and cheese
a line drawn around my lips
where I’ve been
whose hand I might’ve shaken then sucked.
I am nothing like any of them and all of them
sipping Shasta soda from a can wet as trees
sidewalks singing.
Petrichor is the word for how air smells after rain
when all’s washed and up.