Alison C. Rollins

after Mickalene Thomas

When I look back over my life
on how everything played out
it was I who licked the salt from your pillar
neck. Some days I chose to self-sabotage,
some hours I resembled Orpheus, afraid
we would never walk right up to the sun,
hand-in-hand, my fingers stuck beneath your skirt.
I looked to the hills from whence cometh my help.
I lived in the history of the future where
some of us would not die. When asked to keep on
the straight and narrow, when presented
with the lineup of Tom, Dick, and Harry,
I ducked to enter a pink hole.
When I forgot to mind my head,
God looked over his shoulder.

God gave me a man
Who I, in turn, bodied.
Had he lived, I would
Take myself more seriously.
Come what may I will
Get myself together,
I will whip myself into
The shape of a man
Who has put away
Childish things. I will
Take a woman as my toy
And pretend, in doing so,
I’m highly favored.

for Allison

All lovers feel like they’re inventing
something. How else would we work
out the kinks? I am in awe of your
pussy. You said it appears like I am
doing an inspection. True. True.
I lift the hood. I study your anatomy
of flowers and fruit. Mixing food with
sex disgusts you. You hate cantaloupe
and the texture of cherries. Once, you
had a nightmare about being force-fed
grapes. Your eyes change colors when
you laugh. There goes the secret life of
green, witch hazel spells of black magic.
You encourage me to keep climbing as I,
a heathen hymn, teach you the taxonomy
of touch. You, a table of plenty, show me
how to paint by numbers. One is never
enough. Two: my lips at your neck. Another
two: the sound of my name—twin flame
of your own. Four: your hands around my
ankles. I present you with pansies and lilac.
This poem is a form of praise and worship.
In years lived, you’re on page twenty-eight,
and I on page thirty-two. I hope that you
survive me, I do not ever want to go without.