My Dick
is bigger than yours,
and looks good
in a peep-toe pump.
My dick makes me come
every time. If I want to
I can stick it in my butt
or even lick it like
a rainbow whirly pop.
My dick likes to explore
ancient cultures, likes to
dive down into manholes
searching for lost obelisks.
My dick never hits me
but sometimes I hit myself
over the head with obelisks
to help me sleep.
My dick is self-
cleansing like a cat
and can go for months
without getting bored or sad.
When my dick gets sad,
it stacks strawberry
frosted doughnuts
on itself and feeds me.
When my dick gets bored,
it reads Hegel, enjoys talking
about what he meant
by übergriefen: to overlap,
encroach, overreach.
My dick wants to be
on the street, wants to press
doorbells, and open doors
where it is met with a fuck yeah!
Poem Lacking Intimacy
When I said I had no sense
of a moral compass, I
meant I was embarrassed
over killing the mint,
and not over eating
cereal on the toilet.
The woman on the radio
says vulnerability
is not the same thing
as oversharing, which
lacks the intimacy
of actual sharing.
Another bird I don’t know
is singing. I should be
asleep, but my mind is with
a particular patch of sun;
I saw with B, three years ago,
the absence of a lounge chair.
To grocery shop
is the closest thing
I feel to being alive,
acknowledging I need
spring mix and expecting
I will be here to eat it.
Catherine Pikula received her BA from Bennington College and is currently an MFA candidate at NYU where she is a Writers in the Public Schools fellow through a partnership with the Teachers and Writers Collaborative.