By Adrian Rodriguez
You really want me To use this? An 8 ounce Fiji bottle, Spring water from a colonized island behind a plastic rim Ribbed for no one’s pleasure, To douche Out. Yes. Alright. Don’t laugh. How can I not. __ Damn, babe, it’s so clear So damn clear, babe. So clear. So my large intestine, clear, sat me down Right then and there, on the toilet, No knocking, And said, “I don’t feel like myself. Not in a bad way. Like when you’re too stoned, too drunk too okay after crying for too long.” I got up without really getting up And looked at him without really looking at him And kissed him, really kissing him And hoped that somewhere Between the toilet and my moans This man would fondle my flesh enough to forget my function To give in and wail and slip out my name Taking a mile long hit of poppers And not smell. The next time, I sat across from him. Enema up my asshole, Smiling As I emptied out My shame and concern, I said, rising to his lips among the clouds, Hills and hamlets and country roads below: You really want me? Yes.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.