From Dionysus Restaurant and Bar

He walked me home last night
barely making it to the first secluded spot
before pulling down my pants
and asking if he could
come on my face.
Two days ago I stripped

the ghosts of Colin's pencil drawing
from the wardrobe my father wants to burn
the pieces coming
off like bits of pulled pork--
I ruined what I was trying to preserve.
Painted fragments of my history,
and all I cared about was Colin's contribution.

Last night Scott let me turn
the sweaty pages of his journal
and I marveled at the phrases scribbled
in his panicked hand--
You reckon I could kiss you?
Tuck me in.
The pain is now visible.
He waited as I scribbled
the notes in my own journal-- I wonder
if he knows what it means to share
something like that with someone like me,
naked thoughts slung
recklessly from one mind to the next
shameful, fevered writing
Faster
Just a minute
I'm finishing now, there
Sorry,
My quivering pen over his page.

My thoughts slide to is torso
mighty shoulders quaking
as she tucked him in
feeling over them tight as words

rhythm, intention, heavy effort--

his journal sexed me up more than that
fucker yanking down my jeans in the
potted plants outside the Monumental Life Building.
Hank says I have a problem and I hate him
for his snide remarks about things
that do not concern him.  He only hates

that he doesn't have stories about
fucking me in the dirt, or in public, or anywhere
more interesting than a bed,
I think.

But nothing occurred to me last night
as I jiggled around the flower bed.
I was and was not myself.  The only
words I knew were yes and cool,
some happy, hyper-sexualized product
of a crowded home and loving parents.
I refrain from using Last Night's name.
But when he finished
on my shirt,
he zipped up and walked down
the terrace steps and waited
for me to redress.
Did I see him wait for me?
 He was gone when I got there.

And he never even walked me to my door.
It was with relief that I found my front door locked
and my phone and wallet still in my purse
and other sundry clues that I was not
made a victim last night.  In fact
to an outsider, last night looked cool,
spontaneous youth
blossoming-the-fuck together,

but I hate that my hands smell like him
and I can feel him under my clothes tonguing
over me still
and there's mulch in my hair
and I hate that he left to go back to the bar
and I,
just screwed,
barely clothed or shoed,
went back to my empty, half-heaped bed.

You reckon I could kiss you?
Tuck me in.
OxyClean my soul.