like my body is the Mr. Softee song

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          and even three blocks away the last note

makes everybody’s mouth water

          I’m waiting to be

desired and how,

          so desired I could spit

my spit is a diamond

          a sour cherry shining,

plucked from the top of a pile

          of sour cherries in a green cardboard carton

to get fucked, and how

          to get fucked like a bird on the edge

of this bar’s bathroom sink

          to be the Bachelorette, and how

for the doors of this bar to bust open

          for tens and tens of my ex-lovers

to suddenly fill the space

          for them to crowd the bar for me, and how

for them to crowd the other guests

          spill their beers, spill their guts

for my ex-lovers to put their hands

          and lips on the floor to lap up the diamonds

for them to suck on the sour

          cherries of my spit, and how

for them to polish the pits of my spit

          and in turn spit them on the linoleum

of my neighborhood bar

          for the floor of the bar to not just be sticky

but to glitter and crunch like wet sand

          for all my ex-lovers to beg me

to hear them beg me to let them

          finger me in the park

take me to Bemelmans

          crush me in their palm like a nectarine, almost

for them to steal me for a second

          to be the Bachelorette

to stand on a yacht and scream I’m the Bachelorette

          but the yacht is the Staten Island Ferry

to jump into the arms of all my ex-lovers

          to wrap my legs around them

a girlish snake, and how

          like Eve herself or Becca K

for the rose ceremony

          but instead of boutonnieres

or long stemmed reds

          it’s just my perfect body, and how

to take them to the bar’s red bathroom

          where they each fuck me like a bird on the sink

for their teeth, their heavenly breasts, their many cocks

          for some of them to wither

dead celery in the crisper drawer of my fridge, and how

          for some of my ex-lovers to wither before me

for some to not know me at all any more

          for some to keep on walking, past the honey

like Dorothea Lasky says, and how

          but the field of honey is the bar

the bar where I’m the Bachelorette

          to walk some of my ex-lovers out

in the orange sherbert sunlight

          but instead of dawn in Calabasas

it’s 7:30 pm in Queens and

          the sherbert runs down

the bay-colored bricks of the building

          on the other side of Seneca Avenue

for some ex-lovers to be sweet to me

          and some to be cold as sherbert

for you to finally enter the bar

          like they flew you in, reaction

shots like a midseason tease, and how

          for you to sit at my feet

suck a few cherries to the pit at my feet

          no, for you to wither there

for you to fuck me like a bird

          no, no for you to beg me

to take you to the bar’s red bathroom

          for us to kiss

for us to kiss then not know what to do,

          to be forgiven

to forgive you, I guess. 

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