Emmet Penney '11
He showed me the rippled, scarred name inked
into his arm, burnt off with a pan pulled
from the blue burner. He pointed: “This is how
you love a woman.” The rain-swollen Playboy
I found when I was ten had the most delicate pages.
I parted it open with a twig snapped
from the nearest pine tree. My pulse’s thick hum
radiated from my chest. If trains passed they did so silently.
In Baltimore, you and I watched some guy wearing
a Shaggy 2 Dope t-shirt fuck a girl with Michigan’s
state bird tattooed to her throat. Her fist-clenched
ponytail, spit frothed on a car window. You lit
my cigarette and we waited for the sound of skin
clapping together to die down. You took me, when
we got home, to bed. Your breasts hung from
your ribs. I heard only the dampened thunder
of blood throbbing through my body beneath you.
About the Author: Emmet Penney '11 was born in Chicago, IL. He now lives in White Creek, NY and spends most of his time reading and writing.