There was just one shop in all Yerevan
that sold thongs so you took your mom. She knew
that you’d come over, sit on the divan,
show off your steal. Fabric almost see-through,
crusted and curled from spliffs and sex that wrecks
each day after school. The only English
you knew were the words to Khia’s, “My Neck,
My Back,” which were enough. You said you wished
you had friends who would play this rough. Neighbors
gossiped: they heard your glee, biting the sheets,
shaking like fever. Once that was enough.
Once you were all-wants and I all-pleasures,
breaking free from a world that still mistreats
lovers, shames daughters, calls our love mischief.