Strapping It On

Rock, paper, scissors:
I will be the first to wear
the dick. It quivers a little

as I heft it hand to hand;
still, I trust it to remain
inanimate. We’re not here

to play make believe.
The scent of new leather,
the straps that flap awkwardly

at my thighs: anchors
to the ordinary world. She
helps me with the buckles.

I’m reminded of the time she
took me on the roller coaster.
How we waited in line under

the rickety structure, my palms
sweaty with the promise
I’d made, how it loomed, testing

my faith in physics and in her.
It’s got to be something like
swinging a hammer. Leverage.

Momentum. Intent on pleasing
the woman I love, I’m just
hoping I can do this right.

My doubts vanish at her
sharp intake of breath. If
I thought we could co-opt

the cock without inheriting
its legacy, it was only that
I did not know how beautifully

her hips would fit my hands.
I am the subject now.
Thrust, the original dance.

On the roller coaster,
as the cars crested the first
hill, in the held-breath

stillness at the top of the
rise, my heart pounded in
anticipation of the inevitable

drop. Then the seat fell
away from me and if not
for the bar across my body,

I’d have gone hurtling into
the blue. It is precisely
the same giddy terror I feel

now. Gravity regains control;
the secret rushes in. This
is why they think they own us.

BY SASHA WARNER-BERRY

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Sasha Warner-Berry lives in Brooklyn and works as a community organizer. Her greatest achievement as a writer came at the age of eight, when her short story about dancing frogs and unrequited love won first prize in a contest in her hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts.