I’ve been thinking lately about sex
and why I seem to have so little of it.
It feels almost
like a waste
of a body.
And then I think about
and why I seem to have so little of that too.
And my yoga teacher’s
shiny head as he walks around the room,
smelling of lavender
and lemon grass -
like a foreign country.
He presses down on my shoulders
as my body twists upon itself.
Your body is open -
he tells me -
You are willing to change.
I’m happy that he notices.
It feels good that someone notices
I’ve been thinking about stuff like that,
sometimes even when
a boy I meet at a bar asks me to dinner,
shows me his tattoos
explains what each one means
as if taking me on a personalized tour of his life -
tells me he can hear the ocean from his room when he sleeps,
tells me he’s a good cook.
I’m one of those eager tourists,
the one with headphones on at the museum-
the one carrying a map,
spending her money on cheap souvenirs.
I’ve been thinking about stuff like this,
sometimes even while
I drink his tequila
so he doesn’t feel alone
and he grabs my hand,
his palms wet -
like he’s been looking for it all night long.
And in the dim light
with the loud bass surrounding us,
the homeless man asks us for a cigarette,
lights it up and stands next to us -
too close perhaps -
so black he is glowing.
And inside of this buzz
I begin to confuse the burn of tequila,
with the warmth of love.