Chelsea Dingman

Conclusions & Findings

                                                                        The body as accusation—:

naked in front of a door, a set of keys
thrust to the floor. Moans. Perhaps. Or just hips,

gyrating like a small string of words, lost
                        in the ear. Everything

small as a conclusion. As the complaints
of legs clamped shut. Fists clenched.

A slap. Once, I thought sex was supposed to be good
fun. Now, I can’t remember. And you, touching me

                        like a pair of hands emptying
                        a bathtub full of filthy water. You refuse to say

anything true of the windows, the light
falling at a slant, the floor that bore such a likeness

to my back. You forced me to ferry
bravery from a bed frame. Shouldn’t I want to be found

& fossilized? Titled like royalty. As momentum continues
to shift—, the hard consonant of my body, measured.

All these words we’ve had, & still, I want what any girl would
want: [verbal] stimulation. A vaccination

of your body inside mine. To own something,
                        small or otherwise, that will never yield.