Our cars kissed
bumpers
and in my rear-view
mirror you
looked like a boy,
banging your
shorn head on the
steering wheel, and you
looked like a boy when
you
wrenched open my door
to rant that I’d
stopped too quickly,
all sweatshirt,
torn jeans and
attitude, and you
certainly fucked like
a boy in that
convenient motel, your
aggression
taking me aback as you
took me,
rode me, swallowed me,
so that
it was only when your
contented breath
ruffled my chest hair
that your
girlness seeped out as
you slept.
