New York City, 2002
In those days, I never
expected much, believing
a man must be desperate
if he touched me
—oh how I wanted
them to touch me—
I fucked a man high up
in a building, Broadway
combusting beneath us.
Each light a knife of glass
-shatter. Each light
a galaxy we existed in.
He gathered his clothes
while I drunk-slept.
Men gnawed at my ribs,
knelt between thighs,
but none ever wanted
inside. A watch
forgotten on a table,
a T-shirt wadded up
on the floor, men
who made it to morning,
fumbled with locks,
pulling at the door.