Matthew Walsh
How many pictures of my sexy butt
hole am I supposed to have?

I don’t know if I want to do that. I send it,
my butt but he wants the actual butt hole.

Seems pretty intimate. I tried it alone
but the best ones are probably taken with help

from a friend. I have no idea. Dating is unreal.
I went to a guy’s house to watch a movie

and when I arrived he said he had no TV
thought we could get to know one

another, the music said intimately. Sexy jazz
and candlelight. I told him I am freshly broken

up with. He took his clothes off save a red
Cardigan. My heart belongs to me.

He said I felt so weird with my clothes
still on. I said I’m comfortable

this way. He said okay, okay, wanted my family
tree. Was I cut? He was looking for one

to move into downtown apartment. He’s never
home. He ran his hands under my clothes. We kissed,

I pushed his titties together, said he was beautiful
to somebody, to somebody not to me.
Matthew Walsh is a poet/short story writer. His work has appeared in The Malahat Review, The Winnipeg Review, Carousel, Arc, The Puritan, Matrix, Hoax and as part of anthologies BafterC and Writing the Common, poems about the Halifax Commons. Twitter: @croonjuice.