Every woman I know

is naked on the Internet.

Every

single

one.

They breathe, “H-T-T-P:

colon,

back

/slash-back\

slash.”

I can’t

not

look.

A photographer

holds out his card;

soon, we shall see

whether the claims adjuster

upstairs

shaves

downstairs.

I’ve seen my boss’s stretchmarks, the

waitress’s c-section, and my

third-grade teacher’s mastectomy.

Interplanetary Janet stalks the boulevard

all day, screaming,

“You’re all MURDERERS!”, and

“Fig Newtons are for COMMUNISTS!”, and

I know every dent

in her hood.

My sister posts

thumbnail portraits;

magnified, her nipples are

hairy thumbprints.

My mother haunts the dim, hot, greasy

flesh-dot-com underbelly,

feared by many,

upvoted by more.

Grandma sends a FW: FW: FW:

I must

not

*click*