Jen Mcca


She asked me to pick up her dog

I picked up my laptop
She never asked for so much as a word
except when she did, she said – 
There are words I need to hear first
(to ditch the other women, she meant)
So here we go –
You don’t love women like me
clean handed, I’d rather lock my door 
drop my cock to the ground
than mingle with rough handed women

Erotic rage is a thing, 
my therapist told me so

I drove to your house a cock stuffed 
between my bloody thighs
Scowling, I’m pretty sure 
You came to the door and said something
about me not smiling –
You said I was pissed

You read me like a child reads a sonnet, 
without structure 
or the cadence of a heart beat
phonetically decoding 
a language still without scale

I slap you, shove you down 
knuckle the space 
between lace & wet skin
nibble you
my mouth works its way down your torso
my tongue runs itself between your legs
your clit throbs 
so I thrust myself inside you
fingers fist dick

I spread my body on your bed 
spent. Your ass raw  
my eyes fixed on a speck on your ceiling
no part of me
touching no part of you, not even within.
My hand was inside you
yet I’m the one split

You don’t conjure up love songs
But I made you a playlist.
You don’t drive me to write
But I wrote you a poem
and 7 letters you’ll never get to read.

My fingers map you –
the ridges & divots 
of this body that knows how to 
damage with precision
I put my hands around your throat
You flip me over with my dick still inside you.
Hug me, I said
my arms flush against my own 
I hear nothing but a fan
telling time –
my brain ticks
I need to unlearn this.


Jen Mcca is a full-time educator and some-time writer and poet based in Oakland, California. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of California Riverside.

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