it is friday the thirteenth
last night i sat in the car
of a japanese musician
who is thirteen years
older than me
i took him in my mouth
and his sounds of pleasure
were like sounds of grief
like beseeching
for something impossible
i told him he was lovely
in the changing red and green
light of a traffic signal
earlier in the night we ate pizza
like two americans
i'm always forgetting
that i'm american
as we walked to his car
i stopped by the lighted window
of a thrift shop
and lifted my skirts
to show him the scar on my belly
i'd written about in letters
i didn't kiss him first
like i always feel i have to
we sat with remnants of pizza before us
and he said, i would like to kiss you
and he asked, would you like that?
i was looking away, looking at
a print of a painting of
a woman dancing
and i nodded
too shy to look at him
we kissed like children
or maybe two people
old enough to not know
how to kiss
in his car he whispered,
you're torturing me
and i felt relief
knowing i'm not the only one
who knows what torture is
