by Julianna May
Take your shoes off,
get comfortable.
The foot and a half
between us enough
to spread your legs,
feet crossed at the ankles.
I am just a woman
made to shrink
into faded fabric
men flattened.
I suck in;
leave an armrest open for you,
anxiety telling me
“Don’t touch elbows,”
though your greasy black bangs
brush my shoulder
as your open mouth blisters my ears.
I am just a woman
designed to suck in the air,
suck in my belly
suck in my bones
suck in so you
have room to breathe
though my breath
catches and shakes
like a clothes line
on a windless day
that suddenly sprouts rain.
I raise my head,
hide my red nose
and the rain pooling
in the back of my throat,
and suck in harder
so your balls have room to drop.
Julianna May is a poet based in Northeastern Pennsylvania, a graduate of Wilkes University’s M.A. in Creative Writing, and a high school English teacher. She has been published in Nightingale and Sparrow Magazine, Crepe & Penn, and Teen Belle Magazine. Find her on twitter: @JuliannaMay1216
Emerge Literary Journal 