they crumble like flaming leaves
under my feet, these men and
their hearts, these men whose
skin I leave tingling when I
whisper softly:
you will not own me.
mother told me I could make
any man love me, now I'm
telling her yes mama, I can,
as I scratch out numbers
on their backs- one, two,
three, four, scratch, over and
over and over as our bodies
turn into tides-
except that is not what love is
to her, and I ebb away
from the tenderness
I once possessed.