Any answered question. Words like potluck, or
peony or scorn. Tomorrow, I will cum
to the thought of a particular bend
in the road. The next day, maybe the sound
of an owl. The body less and less 
appealing with every hour. Without
Christ. Without yeast.
With a funny aftertaste. All
my want belongs to someone
who will tell me I’m a good girl, where
good means nothing but honest-
to-good goodness—

the kind that’ll get me
past any gate: iron, picket
or pearly.

My god, my god.