Dryer vents smell like sex-appeal
and boys who knew me well enough
to seduce me in the drum-drum-whoop
of the laundry room.
I remember their strategic hips against my knees,
gravity's punch drunk palms
pressing the backs of my thighs into the
white enamel beneath me.
It felt like sitting on the flat back
of a modern day sineater
-my body a nexus between transgression,
extrication and the moment of it all.
We were a three-piece beast:
religious pornography for the playground generation.
I was the virgin daughter you
turned holy war heathen
beneath your sin son snake limbs
as we exchanged teeth in the trull of Eden.
Those laundry days of private in public
-when our faults felt washable and easy
in the soap air hum of clean- were mine.
And just because they smelled innocent,
doesn't mean we were.
(Last Edit: 3.7.08)