My shoes became insurance

policies. My panties ripped like unsubsidized

loans from interest. Panties, a word I borrowed

from (some) porn. Once, I sat at a table

where we talked about panties

appearing in a poem after the word pink.

My words are worth a dollar

on Amazon if I put them there,

publish them with a cover I designed myself,

plus a three-part plot that involves

desire as skin getting wet—getting, like a credit

card swipe—and this ero-

tica will pay my student loans,

maybe. If it sells. If it’s good

enough to fill a glass, then why not

serve it?