I’m not sure
what ails my body—
old age
or longing.
I’ve been with three men
in total
since I first got fucked
at fourteen.

That farmer’s son
who plowed me too
did it fast like rice planting
out of shame.
He only got one
big testicle
from falling off
the buffalo’s back.

Another was Italian,
a film critic
whose fantasy was quick
screwing in theaters.
He would pick last shows
and backseats,
so nobody could watch
and masturbate.

Then there was my husband
dead now
due to weak heart
and tarred lungs.
Sex with him was a worry;
he would be on top
then convulse
and gasp for breath.

I never complained
when I was laid on grasses
and spat on with sputum
because I couldn’t loosen up.
I never protested
when I was interrupted
and left
fingering myself.

I’ve never made love
with anyone really,
so nowadays I’m busy
watching YouTube videos.
I’ve been observing
how Anna Pavlova totters
in white tutus
and feathers.

I want to flutter my arms
and rattle my legs
as my pelvic bones open
to the noisy vibrations.
I like to begin
with tiptoes to my bed
until I quiver on pillows
like the dying swan.


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Image Credit:fPat Murray
Miya Ko is a writer in Southern California who enjoys waves and coffee.

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