in response to Bobby Parker’s poem (and others)
I didn’t enjoy the taste, all that salt,
the consistency of failed pudding,
or the way it stained my skin,
crusted over in places the washcloth missed.
Your genitals always smelled like day-old sweat
or stale onions, or rancid milk,
and I was jealous of the poets who compared
the scents of their lovers to barley or wool.
I didn’t like sucking dick, felt
obligated after you ate my pussy.
In repaying my debt I started hating
receiving head because I knew what came next.
You never let me take control, your hands
in my hair not to tousle or caress but to use
as pulleys for my lips, moving
them with your hurried rhythm.
Sex was always over when you got off.
At best you’d run a finger across my breast
in half-assed affection. Swallowing
would get me gratitude, but no reward.
When I was six, I was molested
by a neighbor who blindfolded
me before making me suck him off.
You didn’t believe me when I told you.
By the end, I had to be drunk to fuck you,
but drinking was easier than leaving.
In those woozy evenings I could pretend
I wasn’t wasting an entire decade.
You spurted personal information all over
the internet. Though in that regard,
I’m a hypocrite. At least there’s only evidence
of me consuming your bullshit.
Allyson Whipple is the author of the chapbook We’re Smaller Than We Think We Are. Her collaborative work includes co-creator of the game Choice: Texas and co-editing the 2016 Texas Poetry Calendar. She has a black belt in Kung Fu. This fall, she will begin further her poetry studies with the University of Texas at El Paso Online MFA. You can follow her on Twitter @avocadoallyson.