i.
What an honor it is to have been called the name my ancestors gardened
on callused hands, the name of a labored body, the name of women
without husbands— as if it is such a bad thing to have more lovers than
divorces— the name of morning, the name of strong arms pumping shots
from a cow’s thick-skinned udder into a tin bucket, the name of a skill set,
the name of sexy vintage pinup ads, the name of the way you meant it— a slut.
ii.
I tattoo a portrait
of a spotted cow,
you come closer
and grip my arm,
laugh at your own
joke, what are you
the milk lady?
and I, with big tits,
my camel toe
eating
my leggings,
flirting with anyone,
my kindness
is fucking slutty.
iii.
is a No Man’s Land; is a long walk on the beach during the afternoon sun in Miami with no shoes on; is a callused, no nail-polish, hand; is long-colored hair eddying in the wind with split ends; is a small cavity; is a type everyone wants to know but not befriend; is a Libra moon; is to have been loved many times in every country; is mediterranean blue; is a crystal quartz bathtub with running cold water in October; is a tired brow; is a thirty year old mother who spends her days teaching language arts to kids who’d rather be on Snapchat; is playing Nintendo Switch with her son; is forgetting to cook dinner; is forgetting that mother also means sexy; is fatherly advice, everything: people, milk, love, expires; is insomnia; is a bite of mango with the browning peel; is anyone; is me.