The Draughtsman

Seventeen years since your retirement
One for every foot of your occupation of my girlhood
Not to scale for at seventeen I discovered
You are as unassailable as the stool my three-foot self could
Never climb however steadily positioned against the drawing
Board with a drop so sheer for the plummet of your moods
Frequently rolled like pencils over blue-prints of right-angled
Doorways and vague outlines of windows, sketchy outlays
Of foundations of your being that insisted on revealing where
The septic tank should be as if we did not know where the sewage
Was located while numerous Storage Units were strewn
Arbitrarily across both floors of your semi-detached self.
Without clues for what should be kept in them though we later suspected.
And now your own foundations are beginning to sink
You are no longer to scale as you once were.
(less defiant two-story than abandoned bungalow)
I still tip-toe across the t-square of your mood negotiating
The pirate’s plank inevitably leading to a 90 degree turn
Onto which I mount. Sliding unsteadily as it narrows, shortens
While your tongue sharpens the lead of my feelings, paring them down
Until there is a storage unit of shavings to shore up with a wooden ruler
One rule for you, a different one for everyone else

Post-coital feminism

“I don’t believe in an intersectionalist God”, he teased
Sheets coiled about his knees as she padded towards the bathroom.
Her deliberate poise intersecting with shame
at the moon landing terrain of her thighs.
“Get a bleedin’ life, would ya”, she retorted over her shoulder
towards him lying prostrate in submission to her naked point of view.
His deliberate pose obsolete given the rainbow of
pillow-creases along his face and the victorious underwear
discarded with indifference along the hedges of the bed
like fast-food wrappers whipped by the wind from car windows.
Those perspiry days of summer.
Rolling over on his back, he waited to be stroked by
her star-grabbing exuberance at the urgency of it all.
But first she had to undress at least five other men.
Crossed-legged on the bed she hung her left brow on
a hook high upon her forehead and gazed intently at
the men overcome by waves of canned praise of her as
her fingers tap-danced up and down their torsos
one by one until she felt sure they were
 – hashtag –