Woman Dressed in Tin

Three weeks past your last

grocery run, you peek

deep in the corner cupboard:

a tin of baked beans—

thick seduction of a last resort

you passed last night,

when the taste buds chose.

So I wait for you

to sink under my skin,

slice the tin and dig into

something as easy as

a prostitute—

but costs less,

and is pure.

You release me, not

gentle, low heat, but quick

dip down your throat

brown and out.

I feed you and the landfill,

though you never say grace

or savor my taste.

My skin (top of the trash bin)

free and empty ‘til rain

pounds and fills me again.

Rust grows like pennies

in a rich piggy bank,

until I am worth

a can of baked beans.

Benay wrote these poems while she was a senior at Georgetown University.