How We Made Love – Becca Shaw Glaser
I felt his small body below me. I ate an entire bag of potato chips. A watermelon sat on my table.
I wondered if my ex-boyfriend was sleeping. When he stirred the air, cherry blossoms flew up like
snow. A fenced unicorn, he felt ghosts everywhere.
I lay with him and asked for a lullaby. I could hear wisps
of the childhood he hadn’t had come through
as a sort of dirge. If I may be of use, I will be
He was always shifting one galaxy to another, grumpy, empty, ecstatic, sweet. He may
have been made of glass.
When we broke up, he threw out the condoms. I shaved my legs. He went out
drinking with guys from work. What makes a great
story? Crazy, if you survived.
I was too horny
to sleep. He was sleeping and needed to be up for work in a few hours.
I moved slowly my hand to his penis. Surprised to find it hard through his white underwear.
I began to caress it, then moved my head closer to smell
its rooty scent, to lick, nibble, then suck on it in earnest, my hand at its base. Him awake.
I straddled him naked, pushing myself onto his penis. He held on like a small monkey, his hands
gripping my neck so that he rose
from the bed as I pulled and pushed my vagina, my entire body over him. Afterwards he said,
“That was beautiful. That was beautiful.” Finally
I could sleep.
I left my body to dry on the clothesline. It had become useless to me. My eyes were stuffed with
cocks and oddly colored assholes. Loneliness made us want old lovers back even though
it was hella trouble. That certain summersoft skin, that hush voice kinda like diamonds dragged
over gravel, that little soldier.
My fruit, to feel its clamping down, the walls meeting in the middle, meat
of my muscles joining around his strange and crooked sphere. Not cut
as a child. It has its own heartbeat.
The body is a shroud only. Wear a condom for me. Put your penis in a plastic house.
Lay next to me and be tender. Tell me stories not of horror or spite.
New York City is always beautiful. Leaking its silhouette against the sky.
Becca Shaw Glaser‘s poems, art and nonfiction have found homes in Birdfeast, Spoon River Poetry Review, The New South, The Laurel Review, Mindful Occupation: Rising Up Without Burning Out, and The Icarus Project, among others. Nonfiction editor for Salt Hill. MFA student, Syracuse University. firstname.lastname@example.org. Be gentle with yourself, ok? <3