by Penelope Sinter
Riding on the back of your bike, all I could think about was your frenulum. In my mind it was so soft and sweet, fresh churned butter. Faded flannel against my cheek, one finger between your skin and your jeans, where you sweat. I wanted you to bury me in black dirt. Maybe cut me open, even, and fill up my intestines. In the fall you could unbury me again, when everything's crunchy, and we could eat the berries that the Mexican family said were okay to eat.
Penelope Sinter is a silly nurse who tends to see the world as Muppets. She lives in the desert and misses green and trees. She shares mostly with friends, and is new to this out in the open thing. She's dying for a motorcycle ride.