She liked to play good girl/bad girl.
She didn’t like poetry,
all that swallowing.
I would be tipsy outside my brain.
Scattered one-night stands
in the bathroom stall, three
in the back of my closet,
several that get mislaid
in the rush.
Like a dream
where my cheeks blush redder than her red convertible.
Ring around a four-poster bed
to a parallel universe,
a thrust of white clouds
a blanched landscape.
Send me fleshy emails—
refill my wine glass till the bottle,
my first true love, burns into the body.
Dress me up in shades of skin.
Drive too fast
past any sign of
before she met me.