Don’t tell me that by having one’s body splayed

across the centerfold, or on a quack work of art,

like slab meat, one has prostituted one’s self.

For by merely sitting here, pen in hand,

a coffee cup on a paper doily steaming nearby,

I have, in my silence, whored myself to words.

For at times, I have no power over what takes me.

Every word, every verse seduces me senseless

until nights have become as colored as a harem.

And yet, in the morning, unable to make them mine,

I watch them put on their shirts, pull on their jeans

and go elsewhere.

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Intercollegiate media group launched

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