The woman in white lubes her gloved fingers, enters
me and pokes around. She notes my U-shaped scar tissue
and sends me home with a dildo because I need to
loosen up. She tells me to imagine that my vagina is a
clock: pushing straight down is six, up by my
clit: high noon. Have your partner press each
number. I always wince at one and nine.
I ache to come home from work someday, kick
off my shoes and mount you. I want to push you against
a window pane in the middle of The Sopranos, or take you
while you’re showering: bite your neck and chin.
We can’t fuck until I’m wet and wide: think of
how balloons expand. But to me that means a clown
twisting dogs from cock-shaped tubes.
Lube, dildo, balloon, breathe;
now we check the clock.
When you’re inside of me, I remember
metal there. Blood on black, burst
bladder, “vaginal packing.” I try to feel
you as you are, but there are spots of
numbness, and, no, don’t move like that.
One day we’ll fuck in a field of corn or an
alleyway at night. For now I ignore the clown
and feel your weight on mine. Your skin’s softer
than metal, and I forget how to tell time.
M. Johnsen has an M.A. in English from the Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College. She has also attended The Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, SiDEKick, Dogbird Journal, and Mortar Magazine.