By Alice Shindelar

She laughs like thunderclaps

and dances like hot mercury,

a hip drip slow poison that slides over your skin.

I can’t take her high strung highway.

I am not allowed her dew petal lips

parted over my sleeping chest.

Her muscles, taut with the weight of me,

are not mine.

I can’t have her background chatter.

The husky lilt beneath her no shit sherlock voice is not


Her wanderer’s long and short strokes are not mine.

Her quick to unclothe and slow to re-robe are not mine.

As much as I might will it, her wide spread,

salutary thighs are not mine.

I use her openly.

To the beckon of my two fingers she comes to me on all


slow wound round my wrist and lit loose

like bottle rockets to spit hot fury

all down my palm.

Alice Shindelar is a feminist, screenwriter, filmmaker, poet, and sex-educator living in Brooklyn. She is a 2010 VERVE Spoken Word grant recipient. In 2011, she toured the US performing spoken word poetry. Her film A Gentleman Never Sweats traveled the US and Japan with the 2009 Bicycle Film Festival. You can find about her at
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