Digested Image by Emily Coleman

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May a goat eat your underwear.

May he begin chewing

at the                        H

nibble to the              A

gnaw through the       N

choke on the             E

and belch up the        S.

May the goat that ate your underwear

finish off your socks,

root to the pink stripe

where your manicured toes rested

moments before

your toes went commando

in fashionable stilettos.

May the goat that ate your underwear

and finished off your socks

floss with your thongs,

brightly colored

stringed torture devices

that separate what you call

"Sugar and Spice."

Even the white one

you wore on Prom night,

when the condom broke.

May the goat that ate your underwear

and finished off your socks

and flossed with your thongs

devour everything in your top drawer.

Every article

traced in lace

padded and stretched

silky and soft

cotton and leather

beige

red

black

and white

every ankle sock

push-up bra

boy-cut panty

knee high

and tank,

even that Polaroid,

the one you think I don't know about,

with you and your boyfriend

on his birthday.

May the goat that ate your underwear

and finished off your socks

and flossed with your thongs

and devoured everything in your top drawer

leave behind an article,

the one you fear, resent, hate

the most--

the dreaded granny panty.

May that spared poly-cotton blend

with the full seat

and waistband cinched above your navel

remind you that one day

your boobs will sag

your butt will wrinkle

your toes will mold

and that you were

are

more than just your underwear.