I lie there and he plays monopoly with my freckles.
There is one on the inside of the little finger and
he slides his thumb across it – I want this one.
It is not for sale, I say –
you can pick one from the plough on my right upper leg.
I want an underdog, a hidden one that gets no
attention, like an abandoned house that has potential.
He always had foresight – as I lie in his New York apartment
which has become yuppified – gentrified since the eighties,
trustafarians he calls them, twenty something year olds
with mommy and daddy’s money. He bought this space
many moons ago, I was probably the trustafarian kid back then,
studying in Dublin city. There was mostly Polish people
on his block, he explains, and now, it is concept cafes
and overpriced vintage stores – Levis Strauss for a
hundred dollars and kale leaves for ten.
He plays monopoly with my freckles.
I want the one just on the side of your right breast.
That is definitely not for sale, I say, as he strokes it
with his ring finger.
It’s mine, he continues – It’s mine, I recoil in jest.
You make me want to do things to you, it is driving me crazy, he says.
like what – my body craving his secret agenda.
I will rent you all of my freckles from my nape to
that gap between my thighs and vagina that you adore –
the anatomy fails me now but you know,
from life drawings and architectural ways –
I’ll rent them to you but the cost is high,
it comes with an army of me, playing games
in the back of my head – each one out, to
out bid you for that freckle hidden deep
on the inside of the little finger.