Sexting (2018)


One. Suitcase. Two. Security. Three. Puddle-jumper.
Jittering with turbulence like the way your fingers drummed, adrenaline,
Into the plastic tray ding fold up your trays for takeoff
Four. Lock yourself in the bathroom. No smoking but you snicker with a matchbox in your socks.

You were in Alaska.
Blackout curtains in a desk-chair-bed cubby like a reeeal missionary, Like the cabins at the campsite where the yuppies stay,
Like the been-there tourists on a Big Red Bus.
You wore tight tank tops no bra, a breeze off the mountains
But you were tormenting the Pastor’s son,
Sideways smile and a couple more matches.

At night you snuck into the joint bathroom and locked both doors cautiously You pulled aside your panties and
Racking your mind for words, sexwords

And flushing an empty toilet
And racing pulsation laid back down, quietly
Peeping at daylight laying tracks on the floor and tossing in an empty dorm.

The next day at breakfast
You were breakfasting and another missionary a cop gets talking about
The infinite void of the internet black abyssal colossal dark matter and how nothing is ever gone, just scattered, sometimes lost, retrievable reeeally, And you’re sitting there next to your uncle (does he know?)
Wringing your hands in your mind and nodding to the cop,
“Oh, yes, how could anyone do such a thing?” (does he know?)