You once found this hard
to believe but soon enough
you knew you wanted it
 
in your mouth. One day
your mother will read this
and you will take a sip
 
of espresso and think about
how you really should cut
your cuticles. The rest of
 
the poem goes like this:
the first hot day in May
there’s already sick-sweet
 
boy funk in the subway
mixed with piss. Come
up the steps into blooms
 
all over the gum-blotched
sidewalk—it’s ailanthus
you’re smelling, behind
 
the commons gate. Tree
of heaven, invasive frond,
home to moths that make
 
a cheaper silk. Slake
is the word you want
under your tongue.
 
You’re not dreaming of
anything. That’s just what it
smells like—semen, soap.