Break-Up Letter to My Clitoris

Just because we don't hang out
anymore doesn't mean

you aren't the single synthetic jewel
affixed to a dancer's umbilicus,

last coin thumbed into a slot
machine's decadent gleam.

To be a gargoyle above your
baroque foyer is more magnificent

than a water birth in the Playboy
Mansion, more opulent

than finding free condoms
in the back of a Limousine

but when I rise from the climate-
controlled leather seats

and leave behind a sleek stain,
it is a desolation. To think, one day

my fluids will take on a different
hue, and I will move through the world

dry as a penny. But you, clitoris,
will be entitled to every susurrus

of joy, a jukebox with one tiny
record looping inside.

- Kendra DeColo (from Thrush)

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