It was not real porn—nobody was naked,
nobody had sex. Although, the woman,
glittering, and the man, a refraction,
both swollen under studio lights, kissed.
His hands would hold her waist, thumbs touching
at the tips. Was she so small she might break
between his palms? The elastic, elongated
L’s of their dance seemed to call for help.
I wanted to be her, being held; I wanted
to be him, holding her. They are working
for the perverse, the naive, and for me—
a child unearthing some new kind of grief.
Alana Rodriguez is pursuing her MFA in Poetry at San Diego State University. She’s the Social Media & Marketing Coordinator for the San Diego Poetry Annual, a submissions reader for Poetry International, and a recipient of the Sarah B. Marsh-Rebelo Scholarship for Poetry. Find her work in Boats Against the Current, The Acentos Review, and Zone 3.