PPS Flesh

Over the summer I climbed into the backseat

of Ray Rangeland’s Toyota

after he parked it by the river

and he seemed surprised when I took off my bra

but not more surprised than I was when he asked me

What’s the rush?

We sat there so long that dew settled

on the grass

and on the hood of his car

everything sparkling.

He asked me when I feel the most free

and maybe it was because we’d been quiet so long

but I said

When I’m running.

We talked about the smell of grass

and Paramore

and how neither of our mothers could cook

and when he finally kissed my neck

I felt the dew on my own skin

all over. Behind my eyes.

After that he texted me for about a month

before he gave up.

That night by the river was the first

time since “it” happened

that I’d felt present in my body

for more than three minutes

and Ray might’ve understood

how running feels like freedom

but I don’t think he could comprehend

how the flesh I wear is feral—

that giving it kindness sends it farther

into the trees, eyes glowing

that it no longer understands softness

when everything it touches turns to stone.