Julia Leatham
if I must be a woman, can I be the moon?

when a man approaches me I think he is approaching my body
this is not because I want to distrust him
I want to trust him
like I want to trust the rising tide
not to over-reach it’s swell
but I don’t turn my back on either

one time,
I sat with a friend in a small French town We shared a pink cake with heavy frosting A man
leaned towards me, lit my cigarette reached into my shirt, skin against chest
one time,
I walked down the street in Connecticut
watched the foliage turn red above me, the baby birds nestle each other in short grass A car
followed me five blocks against traffic

one time,
I sat alone in my studio apartment in Los Angeles wringing dampness
from my clean hair through my window, a large pastey arm
caught it all on camera
one time,
I danced at a party with loud bass and
a man felt moved to help himself to inside me

one time,
I drove to the beach at sunrise
watched damp pebbles catch sunlight, toss it back
peeled off my wetsuit,
heard the pebbles suck in a breath
A man looked me in the eye when he masterbated from four feet away

I don’t like this
that I think of my body so often,
my body keeps my mind full
How many new ideas have fled because
thoughts
of
my
body?

Last night I tried thinking of only what starts on the other side of my skin
My mind drew a breath of air
like crisp gasps of sea foam breaking
receding over small rocks
revealing hard bodies in the sun
I held the tide for a moment there ringing
then, of course, more wet, tall crashing