On hearing in middle school that a pussy smells like fish—
How I wish I’d said, yes I’m a saline marinade. We all are. My pussy is an avalanche
of salt. Tastes all mermaidlike & alkaline. Brine flavored. I’m savory sodium chloride.
Oceanic to the tongue. Relish the zest of my fresh, brackish flesh, I’m all surf water’s
savory smack. I can sink you with my sapidity. Hook & net. Bait you with my relished
tang. My composition is compulsory, a soluble stimulus that your 7th grade self
can’t contain. You think you’re so cute. With what you imagine to be slant/put-down
punishment. How you lopped our sexuality down with one slight, sneering snub.
Suppression in the form of snide. How even then I imagined it compliment. Knowing
I’d find someone to long for my pungent delectability. Went to sleep secure that either way,
I loved the savorous, scrumptious sea that lived inside of me.
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From Blooming Fiascoes by Ellen Hagan. Published with permission of TriQuarterly Books, an imprint of Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.
