Not All Men, But All the Men So Far
He wants to know if I’ll send him nudes.
A stranger, who has never met my fingertips, or been introduced
to each one by name, who has no idea how the back of my neck tastes,
or the way my hair reveals itself as red in winter.
He will open each one like an oyster
and examine the pearl of his efforts.
Me, clumsy, me behind the camera that captured all the tulips
I seduced for middle-school photography class.
Me, opening at the close.
Everything I have left is for sale.
Everything I have left is all choke and whimper, all mouth
and sorry sorry stop now please don’t finish this,
please begin, no, wait- beginning is the worst part,
I don’t have to outline all the men this poem is about.
There’s no SparkNotes summary for each of their lives.
No condensed few paragraphs I could possibly study
to figure out which one to avoid.
They say the Holy Trinity consists of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
If anything, they left me with holes.
Put your fist inside this one
and the deepening will never end.
The word anyways kills me.
Like there’s ever anything else I could discuss besides this.
By this I mean what happened to me.
By what happened to me I mean what was done to me.
By his I mean every body part of mine
he took and never gave back.
By him I mean not all men,
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