In Heat
A dog I don’t know sticks her nose
between my legs and smells me getting old,
a cloudy tang she doesn’t fear, though I do,
I love her attention, but push her
eagerness away, like how I untangled the hands
of feral boys from my then-thin waist, afraid
of their eyes’ frozen grip. Today,
the sidewalks hop
with the scent of the ginkgo’s
berries, a secret jewel the female tree hides
behind generous leaves. The fruit’s flesh
keeps the nut safe until it bursts
beneath the loud weight of a pack of running boys,
legs pounding, punching ground.
Bleachy, mildewed, sperm smell.
When sex was new,
that smell felt free. I believed giving
my body helped me own it. When an animal
is in heat, does it perceive what that will bring?
An urge so deep it quickens blood, postures a body
rump up and wailing and submissive
to biology’s lust, or whatever wants
to lure, kill. A body’s purpose changes
under time’s pressure. I’m untied
from beauty, from random lust. Is there anything left
for this body to give? The berries’ smell bitters
and fades. The dog’s head-butting and exuberant wagging
transforms to yowls. She backs away.
Even she knows something about me is still unsafe.