Stevie Edwards

Harm’s Way

After the Halloween work party 
            wearing a black slip, a picture of Freud 
                        taped to the front (a Freudian Slip! hahaha! 
a brainy skank!), after I proved my dominance 
            at flip-cup, after the turtlenecked 
                        Amelia Earhart asked if I was a stripper 
(hahahah!), after how my body looked in lace, 
            and I said I used to teach in the Ivy League 
                        and drank faster and didn’t say when 
I was sixteen I traded my body for beds 
            all summer, a pretty Black Swan drove me 
                        home. Probably Vince was smoking 
menthols on our shared porch, 
            belly gurgling with stolen wine, 
                        a chef’s easy loot. Probably I walked 
sloppy in my heels, a chicken 
            with my head hacked off bumbling 
                        senseless. Probably his long arm 
draped around my shoulders harmless 
            as a dead snake. After he left my torn 
                        stockings atop of the washing machine– 
I asked if he’d used a condom after I asked 
            if he’d fucked me and he looked down 
                        at his feet, scarred from spilled roux, 
and said no he didn’t like using them. I said 
            very little for a very long time until 
                        I woke in my skin in an old state, 
my parents’ garage piled with boxes, my body 
            spread like an X across a queen mattress 
                        marking what’s mine in the dark.