Mostly Mick Jagger

　　by Catie Rosemurgy

　　 1

　　 Thank god he stuck his tongue out.

　　 When I was twelve I was in danger

　　 of taking my body seriously.

　　 I thought the ache in my nipple was priceless.

　　 I thought I should stay very still

　　 and compare it to a button，

　　 a china saucer，

　　 a flash in a car side-mirror，

　　 so I could name the ache either big or little，

　　 then keep it forever. He blew no one a kiss，

　　 then turned into a maw.

　　 After I saw him， when a wish moved in my pants.

　　 I nurtured it. I stalked around my room

　　 kicking my feet up just like him， making

　　 a big deal of my lips. I was my own big boy.

　　 I wouldn't admit it then，

　　 but be definitely cocks his hip

　　 as if he is his own little girl.

　　 2

　　 People ask me--I make up interviews

　　 while I brush my teeth--"So， what do you remember best

　　 about your childhood？" I say

　　 mostly the drive toward Chicago.

　　 Feeling as if I'm being slowly pressed against the skyline.

　　 Hoping to break a window.

　　 Mostly quick handfuls of boys' skin.

　　 Summer twilights that took forever to get rid of.

　　 Mostly Mick Jagger.

　　 3

　　 How do I explain my hungry stare？

　　 My Friday night spent changing clothes？

　　 My love for travel？ I rewind the way he says "now"

　　 with so much roof of the mouth.

　　 I rewind until I get a clear image of myself：

　　 I'm telling the joke he taught me

　　 about my body. My mouth is stretched open

　　 so I don't laugh. My hands are pretending

　　 to have just discovered my own face.

　　 My name is written out in metal studs

　　 across my little pink jumper.

　　 I've got a mirror and a good idea

　　 of the way I want my face to look.

　　 When I glance sideways my smile should twitch

　　 as if a funny picture of me is taped up

　　 inside the corner of my eye.

　　 A picture where my hair is combed over each shoulder，

　　 my breasts are well-supported， and my teeth barely show.

　　 A picture where I'm trying hard to say "beautiful."

　　 He always says "This is my skinny rib cage，

　　 my one， two chest hairs."

　　 That's all he ever says.

　　 Think of a bird with no feathers

　　 or think of a hundred lips bruising every inch of his skin.

　　 There are no pictures of him hoping

　　 he said the right thing