I haven't gone to confession in twenty years, but this feels like something for which I must atone. This lust for a symbolic man. The tough guy, grim & bald. I never could resist American muscle. His hands, hubcap large. I bet it would be like getting fingered by an old baseball mitt—thick & somehow soft. Worn leather & grass & sweat. Ramona Quimby named her doll Chevrolet, thought it was the most beautiful name. My body could never start a race. No one would launch a fleet to bring me back. My ex said I looked like one of the women in The Potato Eaters, a peasant, sturdy & beige. As if he didn't get on a plane with me to stand in front of that painting. As if he didn't take me back to our hotel & fuck me with the lights on. As if there's something wrong with having a body that looks useful. I've never held a flag or a gun. Nothing has ever started because I waved my arms. When I come, I think about holding his head between my thighs like a steering wheel. I pretend my ex was saying, your body is like a famous painting. It is something to behold.