The Boys Club

Let me into your clubhouse.

I carry your chapbook in my tote bag
like the heart I wear on my sleeve,
full of notes in pencil and holes
where I’ve erased too hard against the marks I’ve mistakenly made.

It sleeps under my pillow,
on the corner of the bed my boyfriend doesn’t like because
my pen leaked ink like a canceled blood transfusion.

In dreams I’ve slept on each one of your chests, sometimes changing pectorals for sleeker shoulder,
switching ears to hear your creaking floorboard hearts,
 the rise and fall of the roofs your breath builds me to live under

Stop walking on me on your way in,
I am a woman, I’m not untouchable or invulnerable
I might be invincible,
you only have to look at the holes in my heart for that.

If it is my waist that gives you pause,
long locks that stop your mouth from including me,
Please remind your heart that I’m not a threat,
my breasts don’t ache for your shuddering touch -

I want your hungover mornings over hollandaise and homefries,
after getting trashed and wasting the pre-dawn hours draped over one another, picking apart Mallrats on TBS.

Don’t misinterpret,
I just don’t believe in self-imposed gender segregation:
poetry is not a place for the battle of the sexes - penises violate vaginas every day, and vaginas snap dicks in half in ecstasy.

Pull up your floorboards.
Let me into your clubhouse.
I won’t redecorate - I just want a beer and your impressive lexicon impressed upon me.