Leah Horlick
This was not an original practice,
but thinking, for a time, that it was
felt like being able to choose
when spring would arrive
- Sara Peters, "The Last Time I Slept In This Bed" (1996)
The new rule was that if it hurt
and I wanted it,
I had to ask someone
to do it for me. And so
I never asked. The first time
it's an accident—I am perpetually
drunk, full of adrenaline, and
You like pain, she marvels—
astonished by my threshold
for spring.
A whole week I can't sleep
on my front, wear a push-up bra,
hug tight. Frozen peas, frozen
corn, one defrosted bottle
of gin, a thirty second panic in the shower
thinking I wanted this, one
acceptable rock in my pocket. The new
rule. Next time, it's a surprise
that we both like this. For such gentle
creatures, pointed out
under sleeves or backless, in warm
weather, like I've been out
in the sun. Look how much
you love me. Little maps. Look,
you tell me,
we match, all spring.