You are sitting at your desk,
maybe you have a suit on because
blazers mean business and maybe
you’re also painting the runs in your panty
hose with nail polish so they won’t
run anymore. You are at work.
You, at your desk writing memos.
You are good at memos.
You love memos.
You think I speak for all
when you write your memos.
You are your mouth, your legs,
and you are under your desk
with both of them with your memos.
You are observing a run
on the inside of one of your thighs,
where a tick sits surprised at the air
funneling up through your skirt.
Things could be worse.
You are thinking Where did this come from or
I am so wild.
Maybe it was there
before you put your clothes on.
Before you put your hair up.
Before, when you were lying
in bed in all your sheets and the sun
was coming through the window
and it was cold outside
but warm inside and so you steamed.
A little black bulge in the white morning.
Now, you’ve let it go on too long.
It has attached.
You think This could get bloody
or Should I let you stay?
You think You need me and
You need my pulse and
Your legs are so frantic
you are so engorged. You say
You are so close to me you say
Burst with me inside you you say
Run down my leg, see if you can find
your bulging way out.
When you Google Krystin Gollihue, you will find pictures of her dog and an article about poetry graffiti. She has poems all over space-time and lives in Raleigh, North Carolina where she is reading area pets their horoscopes. You can find her on Twitter or Instagram as @phenomenoem.