You were an acre of field behind the house. You wore your shorts low around your hips and when we climbed behind the trees there was more of you. You said you liked to fuck until you sweat. When I slept with you, your body was like a rag doll’s. I pressed my tongue against your cloth tongue and whispered you’re so beautiful. So sexy. You weren’t an oil painting. You were a greenhouse of fruits, sun-drunk, singing. I had to color my fingers and rub the pulp into your breasts. We were a Blind Melon song. You were drinking in a diner. I was at the VFW hall watching your flashing accident of hair, the shiny skin of an apple, the elastic of your underwear. We wanted to run through the grass but we were busy peeling things apart. I followed the concise thread of hair around your navel, followed the thought of you, not like a peach and not like a melon, not like anything sweet, but like a robbery, a sweaty violence.