When you run your hands
across my hips, I suddenly
forget it is not a sin to have
a body. Each point of contact
turns my white skin dingy –
something like a tea stain.

I stiffen like a newly pressed bridal
gown, a starched tuxedo shirt.
I can see it now: Honeymoon
suite, our bodies still sin to me.
God may not be real, but
all those men who think
the for-display virgin crafted
from their words becomes
a wind-up sex doll after one
vow certainly are. I know a man
doesn’t want to rest in dirty sheets,
yet here you are looking at me
like I imagine you look at a person.
You’re being lulled to sleep by
the rhythm of your arm grazing
my body. I close my eyes –
the only part of me that has
moved – and wish I felt as
comfortable in it as you do.

—–

Allie Long is an economics and English major at the University of Virginia. Her poetry appears in Hooligan Magazine, The Rising Phoenix Review, and Bird’s Thumb. She blogs, http://www.upyourallie.com, and tweets on occasion, @allie_longgg.