by Christopher Ankney

The unwatched hot iron, I don’t trust it
not to lay on the blouse, ignore

how it burns its entire being on top, 
permanently.

Grandma once said loving another
can be a sin, didn’t even blink an eye

as she talked about her nightgowns 
sewn shut across the bottom, 

the unlocked suitcase tossed out
a bouquet of closed flowers

on her chaste honeymoon.
Where was desire in those sheets?

My best friend wanted to kiss me
but I was not sorry for either of us

when I told him no. It was not rejection
of another, but an acceptance of my own

being. It shouldn’t be a sin to want 
to use our senses on the world. 

It shouldn’t be a sin to turn them off.
The dress we want against our skin

deserves its quiet permission
to be left unaltered.