If you are on top, she would say, make the sound
an umbrella does when it’s being opened up inside.
If he’s taking you from behind, turn into
a branch with eyeballs for leaves. Blink.
If his head is in between your legs, she would tell me,
give birth to the scene in Armageddon
where Ben Affleck uses Liv Tyler’s body
as a valley for his animal crackers.
If you are in public, invite everyone you know.
Bring masks you can slip on and off.
Wear your tap dancing shoes.
Wear a tall hat.
Put something groovy on that won’t make you
want to cover your ears, jump up and down, and scream
later, when you hear it in the feminine products aisle at the CVS.
Turn on the smoke machine.
Now, the stage lights pour through every orifice of your body.
Now, you are dripping with mirrors.
Now, there are flowers at your feet and rabbits scurrying
around you making more rabbits.
The moment is here, she’d let me know.
And by this time she is proud of me.
I will have trained for this.
Everyone is in my head, including me.
Listen to all that applause, crawling out of my own mouth.
Melissa moves to a new apartment.
She is looking for a change.
She is looking for a new start.
She is invited to a party
next door. Whoop-whoop. Friday night.
Too much pressure. She leaves and then
she comes back. She gets too drunk.
There is a boy with a party hat.
He is talking to her about
eggs. She asks him if it’s his
birthday; he’s like, no.