All over You

What’s the incentive for a man to lie —
About his hair colour, his height and weight,
His eyes — when you can see him? No debate
Is likely to persuade you that he’s shy
When he’s all over you. His skin is dry
Like snakeskin. Claiming he’s in a bad state,
His fingers slip under your skirt, and skate
Toward you, skittering along your thigh.

Your mother told you men want just one thing —
They’ll lie about that all day long, of course,
Protesting too much till they’re good and hoarse
And in the dark about their own lying.
So if he promises that he can sing,
Make him. Take no excuses. And use force.