by Caroline Barr
You can open me. Unwrap
these sheets and pull—just
slowly, though, and lick your
fingers first—pull my left
breast out and find the note
you wrote to your kindergarten
love. All x’s and o’s and crayon
devotion. Reach further, the tube
of lipstick your babysitter forgot
in the couch cushions has rolled
to the back. Remember how she
taught you spin-the-bottle?
With those dark berry lips. Now,
move your hand to my knee, spilling
over with the coarse-ground grits
you knelt on for ten whole minutes
when your mother caught you
watching porn. You couldn’t even pull
up your boxers first. Scoop them out
and find the broken condom. The back-seat
night that almost made you a man
too soon. This is what built you, these
wide-eyed nights stinging red like a fresh
tattoo only I can see. Here, kiss me.
Rest your head on my ribs. I am not afraid
of knowing you.
Caroline Barr is a native of Huntsville, Alabama currently pursuing a MFA in Poetry at The University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She is a contributing writer for ANNA Magazine, LLC, freelance blogger and editor, and has been previously published in Two Hawks Quarterly.