New poetry by Kayla Sargeson
Two Women at a Bus Stop
The one in brown boots stands
on tip toes to kiss the other.
For a second I’m in love with their tenderness,
the way the one in brown boots looks at the other,
the smiles on their faces when their lips part.
What about their bodies?
In bed, which one is more rough,
which one starts bleeding first?
It’s been almost four years, but I still remember
Izzy’s fingers inside me,
her woman-mouth on my nipple.
No one knows the secrets between us,
her hands covered in my woman-blood.
When the bus comes, the woman
in the brown boots gets on fist.
Her lover behind her carries a duffel bag.
I can’t tell which one of them I love,
want to be.
I follow them.
When the bus gets to Fifth and Halket,
my red-tipped fingers reach for the bus cord.
A California artist posted a video online
of herself caressing fruit.
It’s a feminist act, she says.
Why are we still disgusted
by female sexuality?
In one video, she flicks
the clitoris of a strawberry.
In another, plunges two fingers into a lime.
A friend of mine tells me she’s tired of living:
It’s too much.
I’m at work watching videos of a stranger
finger fucking fruit
and I’m grateful for the sun,
the way juice splashes out of a plum,
that there’s technology that allows me
to watch this on loop
while students come up to me
with their beautiful eager faces
to ask about commas,
boyfriends, what I’m doing this weekend.