to the topless photos I took for an ex who asked
when I first took you, the glass illuminated
flesh tone. caramel. with two
crushed raspberries peaking
up at my eyes.
My hands had only
touched me when
he was asleep, away
on the other end &
he warmed us up like leftovers.
in truth, I was never turned on.
he bored me over sext,
what good did it do for me now?
his cock, feeble wet cloth
wrung out in his hands. This, our
top model moment. after all, what more is
commitment than sending naked
flesh, storing it
for second helpings.
in truth, I lied.
if I ever run for office,
I hope they frame you
in the national portrait gallery, or somewhere
in the white house, maybe
where bill’s pictures lie.
title it: body of lady liberty. body
in pursuit of happiness.
Sheila J Sadr is an Iranian-American poet and educator nuzzled somewhere along the coast in southern California. Sheila has had her work featured with the United Nations, Segerstrom Center of the Arts, Write About Now, Nat. Brut, Tinderbox Poetry, BOAAT, and many other gems. Her book Birthday Girl is forthcoming with Not A Cult. You can find her at sheilajsadr.com and @ohohsheilaa on Instagram.