That something so pallid, so soft,
so vulnerable, could feel threatening,
frightened me as a child.
I was frightened by its defeated weight,
as if it was too much to ask itself to fill out
the sagging nylon panties.
I wanted no part of it,
my mother’s ass was hers
and hers alone to bear.
But these things leave their impressions
at a tender age and so,
I am a stalker of asses.
I believe you can see a person’s character
by watching them walk away from you.
I always like to follow behind.
I am ashamed to say my own ass is a liar.
It talks a good game, but it’s all a front.
I caught my son following a girl’s ass the other day.
We were in the car at a red light and a girl,
all skinny jeans and hoodie with
genetically attached headphones prancing
across the windshield to get to the mini-mall.
He is nearly 12, I am nearly 42, she was barely 16.
I caught him looking
because of course, I was looking too.
I watched him watching her and thought,
He is seeing everything to come,
the electric skin, like chinchilla fever
and the answer to the question that hides
like a wet pink sea-fruit
beneath the tip of his tongue.
I saw his profile, turned away,
the gentle line of check to ear to chin,
a half heart,
a valentine, waiting to be opened.
I watched her ass
entering the Rite Aid,
and saw everything I have lost,
everything I have left
and a force, like a ribbed funnel,
sucked me down with sorrow,
and a clean-fingered probing
of my old hatred,
that full lipped kiss of regret, all gorgeous with self-loathing,
and the tears I could not wipe away because
my hands were at the wheel,
and I knew
I am sorry,
and more lost to myself because of it.
In his heated glance,
the hips of the passing girl
rocking like a balance,
I was incinerated by hopeless love,
and my own deceitful ass
shifted in my seat
as I stepped on the gas,
wondering how to go on.