Originally: a measure of military
success—count enough bodies, win
the war. Now: the number of people
who’ve been inside me.
A morgue-cold unit of measure
for the diminishing worth
of a woman. My anatomy
receives: I give it up, I let him in,
I take it. I am a threshold
to be crossed but not overly
trodden. Men prefer laying claim
to inviolate ground. But lovers
aren’t round numbers. A filthy
kiss snuck in a nightclub bathroom
is not the slow press of lake-cold skin
in a tent. Leaving last call
with my worst ex, homesick,
is not the numinous heat
of my husband’s mouth dragging
rapt over my hipbone.
