Honey Hole
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The lower my estrogen dips, the more young
men (in their delicate, whole-body certainty
that shatters like that, like ice calved off a glacier)
grow downright adorable. O, those stoney oafs:
grinning, nodding and yawning at the same time;
jocks with bare ankles, flashing slivers of
footie socks; jokers studying my face ha-ha-ha-ing
up a laugh they tricked me into swallowing;
hollow-eyed gamers following deep-space commands.
I’ve been too …
