poem #27

Reverence is a concept
that reminds me of lost objects
like the life-sized fox I sewed
and gifted to my first beau
when I was fifteen: a labor
of love, Nubuck, and deer leather,
filled with down feathers.
He collected that kinda thing.
I presented the fox with a bow
round its faux fur neck,
matching the collar I wore.
I was otherwise unadorned, buck-naked
and unawares I was bearded, too.
He thanked but didn’t fuck me,
and called me his buxom lady, but
what he wanted was a cocksy lad.
Now I wish I had had the sense
to cuckold my foxy beau
and keep my stuffed fox
in reverence for
the time I spent
mocking and chalking and
cutting and sewing it up.
– Kirstin O’Connor
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