A Room Of One's Own

There are several options. I could save myself
the trouble of those hours spent avoiding
the fresh loaf of bread on the counter by eating it
at once rather than sitting outside the kitchen door
trying impossibly to stare it down,
or taking slices then rationing them out in bites.
My mind would be freer to roam
to a few, more interesting rooms an hour
though, I would become hungry again, inevitably;
some things like flesh are indispensable to life.

My feet must take care not to upset the stacks
of black umbrellas waiting behind the doors.
If I’m lucky they do not beat me over the head
while I finish my lunch nor stab me through the gut
with their sinister bodies, impossibly slim and able
to burst open any second at the push of the tiniest silver button.

When I get to the bedroom, my body responds
to your lips with desire; this popping open feels dirty
and natural as falling down.
The second we finish the celebration
of the non-logic of sensation, my stomach reminds me
of the beasts contained in skin,
rising and falling obscenely below our tired heads.
My clothes call to me from their pile on the floor
offering to hide the hatefully soft terrain of the body
more greedy than a penis.
Besides your jeans with the weight of your wallet
bulging in their cheeks,
there is an untied apron, some tights, a bra,
a pocket, stained with ink,
for small, nonessential things.