I don’t like girls—our big, ugly nipples,
slumber parties, cucumbers damming
our eyes—no crying about lunar bleeding,
our chromosome overdose sans the ‘Y,’
and our murderous designs against womankind
in magazines for smiling all the goddamn time.
I’m a slouch—camoflauged in boyfriend jeans,
elastic-muzzled boobs, and a noodle physique.
She’s a lady—velvet boots, earring medallions
dangling, keeps her derrière curved, always
tucked away in sugared sundresses and skirt-
train fringe that might melt in the rain.
Curls pinned in pouf. Mane slung sideways,
not quite dusting ankle but,
oh, if she’d unleash
the wild—roar like she did that Sunday night,
after three whiskeys and an oyster dozen,
she unbuttoned once, breathing in my ear,
Baby, it’s a warm October, from two tables over,
slipping off her jean jacket and not needing
to make eyes with me like we do on Tuesdays
across the classroom. She lingers, unblinking,
mascaraed bivalves, widening to figure out
if it’s my jitterbug fingers or feet ker-thumping.
I square her gaze and I don’t know why
I think she’s waiting for me to cry already.
I should tell her—I don’t love—I shiver
even in summer, my heart hummingbirds,
flies backwards, dreams of her
strutting across the room,
wielding her oyster fork
poised to pluck out my eyes,
slurping while she excavates
the raisined pearls inside.
Nadia Sheikh is a first-year MFA student at Florida State University, a rhyme enthusiast, a waffle connoisseur, a human.