beneath a boring cotton cami, holds these honey sacs
like trees hold beehives, so heavy, almost
natural, almost loose and free. And in this loud lace
under my Harley tee and ripped jeans, I can't stop
thinking about what I want from it, no matter how much
I adjust.  And then tonight, I’ll sit with thinkers behind
University walls and discuss failing gender roles, the binds
of manning-up, the invisible corset strings tied tight
around every woman’s waist, knowing after I’ll strip down
again to this lace and dance the prescribed how-to-be-sexy
dance I must have read years ago in Cosmo or O,
which I once thought short for orgasm. And you will watch me
dance like a man would, even though we are two women
redefining some stereotype, or reaffirming another one,
the one about lesbians needing a man-role and a woman-role:
you in boy-jeans and sneakers and me in this red lace bra.