Women's Studies

Hours pass in the lecture hall of these beds.

My armpit, your left shoulder. On camera,

all of Quebec between us,

we will talk about how my stitches, and the wounds

they clench, dissolve in your gaze. But first,

let’s get the orgasms out of the way, clear our heads.

Later, you’ll read my shame and make an offering—

put it just so—like no one has:

that’s not what that feminism is for, nolan.

And I even believe

the things you see when you look at me,

my bare chest backlit by the lamp, your eyes scorched

with wanting.

The man I have become,

the girl I was long ago jumping from the swing set

landing with both feet in the gravel firm. I was really there,

a kind of knowing.

You make it feel like that again,

easy to trust what is plain. We are who we are,

mountains hold power, and the geese are beautiful.