the falling off the vine

i find myself
tipsy - that’s not the surprise -
in a paint-stained, pale gray sweatshirt,
my mom’s, now mine - far oversized
outside for the sleep of twilight,
listening to its cricket snores,
wearing absolutely nothing else

I leave a little light on me
And that last gulp of wine ricochets in my head
just enough to yank down inhibitions
like boxers, around my kind of head...
I tilt it back, let
wet lips show
begging quiet
for some inquisitive man
to come see...
the mosquitoes are the only ones,
and all vicious, biting ladies...

I cannot keep my need
to taste,
to be slipped into;
to be groped
and gawked at
like the panacea
itself -
I can’t keep that
inside.
so to the porch we go,
bursting with tight,
ripe life,

just falling off the vine,
aching for a bite.