My longing is not Regency gowns and long sighs that float

over the misty moor. My longing is a furtive, slimy thing, pink and raw and cold.

It is like pickled ginger, or boiled and iced shrimp, bubbled chewy flesh

giving way under your jaw. Under anyone’s jaw. When friends ask politely

about my longing, I say, what longing? There is no longing here. I shove

the pink thing behind my back or between my legs. No longing to see here,

only sensible, proportional desires. Underneath me, my longing whines.

Something is dripping onto the floor.