Devon Fulford

what they call girls who look like sex

they call her kfc: claim they caught her with her bitten fingers
buried in herself in the back of third period geography class.
it’s a small-town urban legend and when i see her in drama,
her caves of coal-singed eyes blast hot static, fixed on anyone
who sneaks a peek to see what kind of she could she possibly be.

they call her city bus: what a sad euphemism for bored, horny
mountain kids who’ve mostly never even seen a city, never
loitered on a cold grey corner waiting for public transportation
or shared a bench seat with a stranger but reality tv and hip-hop
lyrics can broadcast even to places no one famous or fancy lives.

they call her butterface: her body is banging but her face is a mess.
they have her anyway, laugh about it in the locker rooms, student
center, and physical science room, hawking globs of tobacco on the
tile and flicking the trench coat kid in the ear over and over and he
doesn’t move, just as her mouth remains still but open enough to fill.

DEVON FULFORD is a poet and educator. she has a doctor of education and masters degrees in both creative writing and education. her poetry book, southern atheist: oh, honey (2021), is available from cathexis northwest press. her second book of poetry, gulp (2024), is forthcoming from red ogre review. other poems can be found in the dead mule school of southern literaturelongridge reviewblood pudding pressindolent bookscrosswinds poetry journal, and many more. 

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