Staci MacGregor
Determinable Objectification

I can tell when a part of me is
being laundered,
rewound,
swallowed.

If I could not know when
I itched you,
or when you stumbled over me
late at night
and swore in your half-sleep,

and when you climbed back into me
with your beery breath
and pressed your face against me,
I could just believe that I was elsewhere
for a moment—
I was actually a good twenty minutes away,
safe in my own bed,
maybe with a book or a glass of water in my hand—
I could be watching the air bubbles swirl.

 

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