Virgin, in its least pure form
by Taylor Broder
You live to please,
your fingers are sticky and
your palms are stained red.
They’ve been Wined and Dined more than I ever have.
But your plate is plain,
no spread,
just You,
alone,
with your basket of eggs.
You bring that attitude into a
confused and complex bed of
young girls looking for clues—
the kind of guidance that points to a world of fruit and labor.
At last,
you leave them,
savory and bitter;
fermented sperm;
fighting for a spot in a golden sunshine urn.
Asinine show-stopper with nothing to offer;
you sprawl out your fingers,
begging for a treat,
licking your lips sensually,
while you bite the hand that feeds.