As a child of refusal
I wanted a say in my own pleasure.
In my youth
where the dark gave way to flesh
I decided to draw a line against
just how much woman I’d be
my body spread
like any field
on fire, a wilding
or what could burn
an entire house down
beginning in that bedroom
the pallet on the floor
my mother’s begging
from the next room—
if I were made to face a fist
I was determined
to take it
without flinching
from the stupid boy
who was stupid solely
because he never grew
suspicious of why I allowed
his hands
afterall, why my mouth
rose to meet his
why I held it there
my small searching hand
reaching for the back of his neck
for a knowing of his soft skin
my curiosity of bruise
how far is the line
between
instinct and routine?
Cover Art by Siri Stensberg
