Come. Sit. Heel. Stay.

Sierra Demulder

When I took your virginity,
I did it carelessly, like a dog
left alone in a butcher shop.
I taught you the way adults love
(quick, dry, no eye contact.)

A year later, in the back of your car,
you showed me what you had learned,
what kind of man I had trained you to be.

There was nothing playful
in the way you hit, tenderizing meat.
Scraping at skin as if you were trying
to take back what you lost inside of me.

By the time you came on my back,
my nipples were chapped
and gnawed as bones. My legs raw,
newly butchered lambs.

—————————————————–

This woman, this Poetess-Goddess, has stolen my breath. I want to write like her someday, if and when I ever grow up. I’m simply and ecstatically overwhelmed by the brutal beauty of each weighted word. This particular poem is from The Bones Below, in which every single poem is a visceral blessing of the senses.

I WILL own every single book of her poems. Or I don’t think I could live.

(Thank you, Mr. Prince, for gifting me. I couldn’t be more pleased.)

Because we know who is really in charge. Don’t we?

Harry S. Franklyn

Drag Queen. circa 1920s

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We’re born naked, and the rest is drag. ~RuPaul