Praise be to the pool in your panties.
The way you can barely walk down
the street, how you have to press
your knees together to keep the secret.
Praise be to the way wetness gathers.
How it makes volcano of your flesh.
Praise be to the sweet, holy smell of you,
the smoking gun of your musket.
Everything is lighter fluid leaking gas,
afraid you will not survive the combustion
until you find a McDonalds and kick
the janitor cleaning toilets out
the only available stall and your body
is heat, pulse, alive,
© Fatimah Asghar
SOME OTHER WORKS OF THIS POET:
- Look, I’m Not Good At Eating Chicken.
- If They Should Come for Us
- Game Of Thrones
- I Don’t Know What Will Kill Us First: The Race War or What We’ve Done to the Earth
- For Jonylah Watkins, Who Was Shot 5 Times While Her Father Was Changing Her Diaper
- Ways I Am Tired
- An Ode To Granny Panties