If girls are apples, this thing’s like a core—
the glossy skin peeled off, the sweet juice drained,
the body (pesky excess) pared away.
And who’s to say you should want something more?
If girls are buildings, all you need’s the door
and one small room. The rest is too ornate,
clever façade and showy balustrade,
inimical to shelter, structure, warmth.
If only real girls came apart like this—
if you could take a mouth between your hands,
and save a second, separate mouth to kiss
when you were done. But no, they don’t, you can’t—
can’t see, through their dark bodies, what’s inside;
can’t take their heavy flesh and make it light.