The Night We Plucked One Thousand Prickly Burrs From Her Ass

was strangely erotic. Each time the tweezers
grabbed hold of a small stinging ghost, her
butt cheeks winced and the backs of her thighs
tightened, like the nervous flinch of a first kiss.

It had to be arousing for her too. To be sprawled
naked on the chaise, each freckle pierced, our
fingers eagerly rubbing her skin to feel for its
sharp shadow.

As we worked, we laughed about the epic
headlock, the cackling boys, the collapsing bush.
PBR cans strewn across the lawn, fireworks
shaking the horizon like the last grimy hour of
a warehouse rave. We never outgrow explosion.

We bitched about how our cycles had been
forced into each other, how you shouldn’t put
blood in the compost heap, it seems to attract
animals, how we’ve forgotten we are animals and
how he will never really love her.

We did not talk about how we found her.
How we could hear the guttural sobs all the way
from the living room. Hot shower only rinsing the
sound. A porcupine curled up in a thin stream of
mascara. We just plucked — as if each burr were a
moment of pain, caught, wiped on the warm
washcloth, and replaced with the forgiving lust
of friends.

© 2012, The Smell of Good Mud, Write Bloody Publishing