Woman

He kissed me in the Kroger parking lot
with my back pressed against the locked door of my 2005 ford
groping for my keys I
felt the heat in my throat as I swallowed,
he tasted like apples and alcohol
and I remembered the stop lights we had run,
his hands reaching for my knee-thigh-thats-too-far-stop
he listened about as well as he obeyed those red lights.

He kissed me in the Kroger parking –
fingers yanking blue streaked hair
backwards towards the earth as if
on my back is how I belong I
sure don’t feel like a woman.

He kissed me in the Kroger – –
rich-boy hands digging into the
hollows beneath my cheeks
that have grown deeper since we met
he says I’m his “everything”
to smooth things over like tomorrow’s foundation on
the half-moon bruises from manicured nails.

He kissed me – – –
under blushing skies on the
deserted afternoon freeway
and for the first time I kissed back
hoping he might forget to keep his hands off me and
on the wheel.

He kissed
“everything” of his and when I am speeding on lamp-lit freeways
I might forget to keep my hands on the wheel because
what if
on my back is how I belong I
sure don’t feel like a woman.

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