I would never know the
sensation.
My feet have never left the ground.
My body has never been smothered with food
while lying on bedsheets, my chest stripped
of bra, covered with homemade jam
by a man who I'm not very sure whether I like
very much and he licks and kisses
passing his tongue across my body
sucking juices . . . tasting tang . . .
our eyes never quite meeting.
But nothing like this happens.
Who decided that I was
going to be the good one.
Who decided and why wasn't I consulted.
The 2River View, 3_1 (Fall 1998)