Snack

Snack

A group of sweaty teenage boys 

sit on the bleachers, 

metal thrones for viewing. 

Reeking of invincibility and immaturity

moist with desire and inexperience 

wafting with impulsivity and false confidence, 

One whispers as I walk by:

“Damn, that’s a snack.”

The feminist in me roars with the fiery offense of objectification 

but the same feminist--

appreciates the juvenile comment. 

I stop.

Turn 

look the boy 

dead in the eye 

and with my signature side glance, smile: 

“I know what a snack is and I’m sorry, but I fuck men, not little boys.”

A compromise of my many selves

left on the tongues 

of their gaping mouths.