If there’s personality in how you jump, then I wonder about
how you fall. Down the rabbit hole into a man’s magazine:
girls stripped naked, rosy-cheeked, flushed out of middle school.
And no, sweetie, this isn’t a man’s world. They’re scared of how
we’re powerful with our Double Ds, beating them in games of croquet,
badminton, tennis, looking beautiful as we get work done
in the well-trimmed gardens. The stylist wouldn’t give me a blowing
white skirt. I’m naked. Who plays games without a sports bra?
And what is love in tennis, or love? My butt cheeks and arms
ready to play, swinging that racket like I’m about to paddle my man
in the bedroom, and I air-jump in white sneakers, ass facing net,
the centerfold’s maneuver, turning around, smiling
like I just spanked my man, begging for payback, the paycheck,
whatever you want to call my power, begging him to grab
the paddle again, knocking hard like I’m hitting a ball across the game
with no net, air-jumped, suspended—the camera catching me.
If there’s personality in how you jump, then I wonder about the way
you fall, caught suspended in mid-air, suspended in the moment
his blue eyes are looking back at you, you see yourself in them
as he’s suspended in the moment, touching your hair that’s tousled
across gray sheets, digging his hands deep into the strands, you gaze back
and you’re both looking oh so good, like strangers who just made love.
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