Girl

I am honey, baby, and sweetheart.
Girl please, my grandma once told me.
“You ain’t nothing but the space
In between your legs,” Mama said.

In high school the question’s whether
You’ll spread them or keep them locked tight.
Now people don’t even ask,
just reach out, grab and smack any ass.

I am make-up, mascara, and shimmery eye shadow.
My eyebrows are plucked and perfectly shaped.
I shave my legs each and every night;
Shaving cream with my razor, just to be safe.

I’m so practiced, so neat.
No stubble, no nicks, nor pin-pricks.
Of the trade, there are tricks
That I’d never reveal to you. 

A girl’s got to keep a few secrets.
At least one or two.

Neruda

 Our love’s no Pablo Neruda,
Erotic, excessive sexual imagery.
No intimate restaurants,
Or French cobblestoned cafés.
We do Ramen, easy Mac, and granola
In this five by five, matchbox room. 

Hipster black frames rest on your nose.
Holey grey nylons; I crinkle-fry my toes.
Dollar movies; pennies pinched.
You laugh at me cause I’m a bitch. 

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
The grease wrapped around your mousy brown head,
Nasal tone when you criticize a movie scene.
Eight AM classes, kiss on the cheek. 

You taste like candy that’s bitter,
Never anything akin to sugar or sweet.
I wonder if it’s because,
Once again this morning,
You’ve forgotten to
Brush your mossy teeth.