pillow talk
in the morning you told me a story
about having sex with a girl named sara
you finished, rolled off, and told her
you know my mom’s name is sara, too
i’d like to be one of those people
whose behavior you can dismiss with a shrug
like that’s just lily being lily
(the scamp)
it’s amazing what those folks can pull off
jokes become bits become a personality
and suddenly it’s
classic lily
what can ya do
do you remember the dude who choked me?
the spitter
i think of him through his hand
planted on my neck
thumb in the front to stop my breathing
fingers coiled around the back to hold me down
i rearranged my bedroom furniture after that
the wiry hairs curling from his underarms
the lots of freckles
i’d been burning sandalwood that night
in the corner where my bed is now
but damn it if he wasn’t nice
at the bar
he’d held my hand in both of his own
paid for all my drinks
only nice things to say about my taste in music
(and yes, thank you, it is very good!)
it’s funny to think the etymology of a catcall is
it used to be a heckle for bad theater.
more recently, a line cook at my job
started meowing whenever
i bring dirty plates back to the kitchen.
my manager says the higher-ups are translating
the employee conduct guide into spanish
though, and you’re welcome
as i suppose he had been meowing
in spanish
well
in the last three years
eight male coworkers have tried to kiss me
english:
i know this is totally inappropriate
is my favorite intro yet
do you want me to be more of a dick to you?
is my favorite reaction to being turned down
and apparently i do
because i’m not even mad yet
not about the other morning
when you woke me up to fuck and said
i’m guessing we did that last night too
as you foraged for a paper towel
i shrugged yes and checked my phone
what can ya do
classic lily
and see, my thing is that
i’m chill
my thing is that i do my own heavy lifting and i’m not
squeamish about blood and i curse and drink
and i take it from you and i am at a loss
for how exactly to identify a kindness
in any given tongue
from men who have seen me beside piles
of clothes and my old water glasses
and my dried-up houseplants, the kind of men
my cat would recognize
you know
other than
that feels amazing
Lily Trotta is a queer poet living in Queens, NY. She is the author of damn good (Ghost City Press, 2018). Her writing has been featured online or in print by Peach Mag, Vagabond City, Bad Nudes, and more. She was the Curate Journal Featured Poet for July 2018. @lilytrotta