(for You, Caroline Kepnes)
Confession is a stack of books; such small
hands offer closer looks: mine Paula Cox
and Spaulding Gray — grad schoolgirl haul.
My nipples peek outside to play. Shoebox
apartment, windows wide, nude peepshow cuz
you’re lurking outside. “I talk to strangers.”
I tweet. Perform. My yellow stockings buzz,
and daddies swarm. Ivy urchin procured
by savant, street — you, bookstore cleric, judgment
replete. Bad mommy to a cracked cell phone,
writer who cannot be alone. You’re sight,
so suddenly I’m seen — blue blood, brownstone,
pedagogically pristine. Twilight
bookstore benediction, your novel whore,
fingered pages devoured by a carnivore.