STOMACH CURVES

I think about the curves of your

stomach and how they bruised

from getting your shit rocked

by a skateboard tied to a truck

fifteen minutes after the school

bell rang for Spring break— 

I think about the curves of your

stomach and how we loafed on

my couch. We tried to not stain

the green velvet with sushi sauce, 

and I saw you through the aperture

of my camera and not through 

my eyes for the very first time. I

think about the curves of your

stomach and you were a goddess

until you were not, endlessly

ephemeral. I racketeer my brain

for more snapshots in the catalog 

but there’s just rough workplace

bathroom sex that we never had

and you dating a tall femme who 

could not even call you her

lover. Those are the negatives. 

I remember the curves of your

stomach when I beckon you to

shake the Polaroid picture—

Aphrodite body could only

balance so much of the tipped

scales of her lovers.