Image courtesy of Grey's Anatomy
A Fair Match
Image courtesy of Grey's Anatomy
My stomach is as tense as a new-strung tennis racket from our conversation last night
A talk of open legs, as if they could be spread under conditions and consent
and a caterwauling fear in my mind, that when I refuse you will resent me for the rest of our life
Spread legs, crouching to bat the yellow ball from bouncing into our own court
smearing blame on the other person’s inadequacies until
it finally lands, and bounces, not quite as high away from ourselves
dribbles away like the white lines
of semen trailing down the just-sprung torso of a lover that isn’t mine or yours
Some go-between over gratuitous distance that you would wish to use
But I will not have it
I want to puke, sickly sweet and acidly awful green
like the tennis ball that a dog owner’s pet has now plopped back into play
It takes such a long, painful time for you to respond
and when you do, you can see it, the way my brow furrows
as I try to wrap my consciousness around this pit in my gut
that you have lobbed, not knowing that it would hurt me, so deeply
I breathe in. I make the effort to tell you that I’m okay
Squat lower to the ground and imagine falling over onto my side
after being taken by someone – not you –
and gripping my shoulders fetal, deflowered and wilting
like the dandelions on the edge of this late-summer tennis match
but my thoughts are held aloft by gusts too powerful for me to comprehend
I think about touching another’s seed, and my guilt will not allow me to feel anything
but disloyalty to our bed. I could never go through with it
without feeling as though I had betrayed you
If I agreed to opening us, then I would feel as I do now
White-faced and bewildered, shocked, pulled out of my head, and I want to stay yellow
like the rubber sphere that’s now back in your court
so you say, “If you don’t want to, then I don’t want to.”
And I hope that we’re okay