5 Poems
Fissures
She holds AJ, short for Angelo Joseph,
on a dirty couch. She tells me about the fiskula
in her ass. “Fistula,” her sister corrects, “Fist,”
and holds hers up.
“My doctor said it was between my cooch and asshole.”
She spreads her legs, traces the seam
in her sweatpants. It is pink, splitting where underwear presses
beneath. “Right there,” she rubs.
Watching Maury Povich, she rocks AJ in his sleeper
with cold toes, their chipped polish. It only hurts
when she goes to the bathroom, when she’s pushing out—
elbows on knees, toes curled like AJ’s fingers around my fingers.
