by Kathleen Kyllo
I know I like you
because when you wear that blue dress
I have to look away.
When you butter your toast so slow
I just want to shove it down your throat
for the shock value.
I know that I want it
because when i see myself in the bar bathroom
mirror I’m disappointed not to be a
big black horse.
What if every book is nothing
more than an attempt
to soften the blow?
Let me be a clean shirt hanging
from a line above South Brooklyn
and please, when you do it,
shuck me like sweet pale corn.
Leave my outsides on the porch
when you take me back inside.
from the wonderful lit journal Having a Whiskey Coke With You