Dear Poldy, I want your lust for liver
fried onion breath, a sweet, a dollop
a trollop, a trickle of cum in my pants
after the beach; I want you to know
there are others who imagine
themselves in the garden
fig leaves dropping
bodies unembarrassed
animals quivering to be named
I like your statue, your crumpled
picture, that you like to be turned on
I think you would have made a good
father

Dawn Tefft | Mudlark No. 29
Contents | Dear Professional Derelict