The Poet

When he says vulnerable, I bite my tongue and imagine
being pinned under a bull, rider going AWOL or
a monkey dancing in a costume. I laugh out loud.
Vulnerable.

When he says vulnerable, I think of vegetable oil
over wilted lettuce. My legs on either side of a table
and July bearing down on me until little mums
smile from either side of my cavity.

When he says vulnerable, I think I’ll stay awhile.
This should be good. I think of the other girls.
Were they vulnerable? Under the table, the fork
in my ankle – and smile for the camera, girl.

When he says vulnerable, I hate him like rotting
fish hate newspaper. Like the Olsen twins hate each other.
Like rodeo riders and ménage-a-summers –
His costumed monkey dance.