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LOLA SHONEYIN
TRYSEXUAL
There's a key in my closet door,
a woman in my room
reading her palm.
Outside, a whirlwind welcomes rain
to her parched fiesta.
Empty cans and bottles spin
into a waltz; she twirls on tiptoes
as sugarcane husks swing
from the hem of her skirt.
The woman on my bed
divines ways to seduce me.
She tells me about the hole
in the half-life I'm living,
reaches up to touch my hair.
I don't let her,
stroke her back instead.
This will be my prophesy.
Longing makes her skin glisten.
I am drawn to unfamiliar contours,
feel nothing but the sharp corners
of checkboxes I tick in turn.
So this is all it is, I say,
standing up. Straight again.
There's more inside, what you seek
might just be in here, she urges,
flashing Tarot cards between her thighs.
It's not in there, I reply
and return to the whirlwind dancing outside.
It's not there either.
Heavy rains have reduced empty cans,
bottles, sugarcane husks to a joyless jig.
I'll dance for you, my soothsayer says.
But all that can soothe has already been said.
I smooth over the ruffled sheets of my single bed.
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