“Crybaby”
Crybaby
I childproof the room against him.
No sharp objects or plastic bags.
He’s a blueprint of flamboyant need,
thin as a coat hanger
wearing one of my black crinoline skirts.
I reach beneath to secure matte stockings
using the ashen meat of his thighs.
His ribs are a mess of Braille.
Little nicks carved into thin skin
courtesy of a box cutter
from his father’s garage in the suburbs.
I’ve kept him full on cheap cabernet
and valium he’s lifted from his mother.
He’s a painted horse twisting
in a little girl’s jewelry box,
modeling a lace scarf from my closet.
I drag his shirtless outline to my naked lap;
manicured hands encircle his waist
hips sharp against my palms.
I squeeze a sound from his dainty cords
equal parts pure ache and pleasure.
The wasted, dramatic crybaby,
eyes encased in tears.
My cracked love ticks
like a dollar store clock wound tight
and disregards the fact that any amount of sex
will tear his paper heart in two.
His wire frame bows under the weight
as our bodies collide.
(”Crybaby” first appeared in Cram, Volume 6, Chicagopoetry.com Press, 2009 – CJ Laity, editor)
