from The Best Kind of Love

I’m high on Tylenol PM I’m 

digging frantically through my 

purse I’m chewing on your right 

nipple hair I’m ordering fried 

chicken and mashed potatoes 

I’m rehearsing for a sudden 

break in time I’m trying to remember the 

bright spot of 

light reflected off the bathroom mirror 

that first time I took your 

cock out of your pants I named it 

a river a cheap plastic vase I rubbed it 

all over with sugar some leavening powder its knowingness 

drenched my skin I was teething I was wearing all 

corduroy I was watching from a distance as my 

cicada wings finally became translucent 

what after all

is the purpose of a cock an

unforeseen conjuring 

a short chain of frantic islands anything 

that can easily be set in aspic 

I should have known it was just a matter of time

before you’d get up and

smooth the bedspread the old

fashioned way 

split 

ends of my wish to 

someday live under the elms 

without knowing 

whether or not it is safe I sit

down and make a list of all my

favorite winter sports

all of the reasons why 

you still won’t let me

watch you pee this

room and its whorish 

economy is making me a hybrid

thing a monster of day old vanilla frosting piss

and apricot jam trembling where even my

lust will no longer perfume my 

pubic hair I’m afraid I’ve never really

deserved it the only 

funeral song I remember

from my childhood

goes something like this 

the first three inches up

inside of me that’s

where you’ll find that the

horses are most

generous I know a

little bit of of nothingness 

always turns you on so I sit

down in my underwear and 

write you a series of

poems about the

tenderness of

paternal sequestering the goat

herd we 

saw the other day in the

Macy’s parking lot even

after four and half weeks of

steadily ignoring the 

mucus built up on the

kitchen counter your crotch somehow 

stills smells like stale beer

dieseled to a perfectly

mirrored sheen I take off my

underwear and throw

them in the kitchen sink 

will they bloom 

a body depends on many

things for survival one of 

which can only be described as the exact

opposite of music I’m whispering all of my

disgusting thoughts into your ear the

Empress Regnant Irene of

Athens was the mother of Constantine VI  

that was the year when I

mated from dawn to dusk until I became a more

necessary planet this sticky

discharge on my

fingers the one thing that

alphabets are actually good for 

no way I’m going to be able to

make dinner tonight so I

rush into the bathroom

and text you the photo I 

took this morning the one

where I am totally uncircumscribable

someday

my soft side will only be

matched by the violence of old milk 

boiling on your extra large

camp stove I drove three

hundred and eighty seven miles 

on the spare the one you

gave me for Christmas the

tall grasses they’re on fire today they are the 

only reason why I haven’t

nectared since noon I know you are

absolutely desperate to wrap your hands

around the fattest part of my thigh

because it’s no secret that 

the syntax of a thing can

sometimes be more dangerous than the thing itself 

was that me breaking up with you just now

or was it my memory of the

wildflowers that only three hours ago

finally reached my waist

our fucking has never involved blood only

a theory to justify the existence of blood in the veins

I cum after fifty seven

minutes down on all fours

my breasts and cunt linoleumed to a fault

reminds me of mildew and meat 

eventually after we’ve

gotten to know each other a bit better I’ll show you my 

rocky shoreline that’s where the

milkweed begins have you

ever really monarched a

woman before or were you just teasing

me most things made of butter can easily 

turn into the ugliest kind of

romance except for that one winter I was 

in the garage I was making a collect call

to Rome when especially the cream

and the Safeway in the distance someone 

just set it on fire and in the

lobby both of us crying because

we haven’t yet found a way to replace 

the sun with something more

grammatically predictable down

on my knees fellating you like a symptom

any false etymology is reason enough for me to 

get out of bed in the morning

brush my teeth wash my face up from the flower of it

I still think way too much

about the ants coming in from under the 

kitchen sink I still think way too

much about submissiveness 

there are seismic cracks up and down all 

over California and yet even now the

only real way to begin is with desire 

∩

Ann Pedone’s books include The Medea Notebooks and The Italian Professor’s Wife. Her poetry, non-fiction, and reviews have been published widely. Ann’s project “Liz” was a finalist for the 2024 Levis Prize. She has been nominated for Best of Net and the Pushcart multiple times. Ann is the founder and editor-in-chief of the journal and small press, αntiphony.