R E B E C C A W O L F F
Man Tits
Look at that pair,
on the one over there.
He's young, skinny, low
muscle tone, poor, white, under-
educated . . . gazing
down
on a
path
in the little patch
of yard in front of his
unfavorably situated
rental where he stands, hands
on hips, mutable, conceivable
speculation on the next weekend
chore.
But his tits are the good
kind: fat, conical, pale against
the brown of his wife-beater tan,
nipples slightly shiny,
areolate. Bouncy, native tits
like the ones you came to see.
Admit No Impediment
I'm going to get up from the table
and go to the bathroom
When I get back,
if your napkin has moved
from the left side of your plate
to the right, I'll
know you want to.
There will be no need to speak.
Or, wait a minute,
maybe it should be if your napkin
hasn't moved.
I want to make this
as easy for you
as I can.
Parkeresque
I'd like a
lidless
Vicodin.
Oblivion.
Countless
sensation of him
leaving the room.
Come back soon.
It occurred to me
fait accompli.
Clinamen.
Phantom limb.
Black cat sleeping
(you used to be
next to me)
next to me
dreams our lost
telepathy.
____________________
Rebecca Wolff
One Morning —.
Wave Books, 2015
