Pucker
My love is deep and penetrating. Subterranean.
Large, thick, slow, deliberate, vulgar, low, archetypal, animalistic.
Ripe for splitting open, to be savored, enjoyed.
I am a pomegranate.
And you.
You are everything that ever was
And everything that ever shall be.
I could pray to you.
And, so it begins.
You take me in your arms and fold me like a fan.
You lead me about the room.
My body is pliant, supple. Your hands
stretch wide across my belly, self-assured.
Even your fingers are confident.
We are groveling.
Grinding.
Sinking deeper into it.
Slathering each other with it.
And then, I feel it.
It is traveling through my bowels
Like a vengeful eggplant on fire,
Violently pushing and gurgling its way
through my lower intestine.
Mocking my sensuality.
For a moment I am shaken.
How can this be? I was so careful at dinner.
Oh God, the cauliflower.
Why? On this day of all days.
The day I wear the crown of woman.
I travel through time.
Suddenly I am 9 years old, in Sister Mercede’s
4th grade class. And Christi Romalo,
with her ample bosom and hairy upper lip,
Tells me I’m not cool enough to be in the
7-Up club. And all my mother can tell me is,
“ Honey, sometimes life just isn’t fair.”
For a moment I fantasize
Just letting it rip.
Will you liken me to some winsome peasant?
Will you love the honesty of it?
Maybe you’ll think I’m earthy.
Next, I imagine standing up,
Clutching the bedpost and proudly declaring,
“ It is I, Flatula!”
Would that frighten you, my love?
My muscles tighten
And I begin to pray, Sweet Baby Jesus
Let your light shine through me and
Neutralize this demon squash-like gas.
I feel an enormous thrust. Is it over?
You cover me with kisses and tenderly pat my thigh.
I tense up and hope for a miracle.
I whisper, “Sweet dreams, my love.”
Barely able to contain the monster inside me.
You begin to snore.
I press myself against the wall,
Adhering my buttocks firmly to it
And say twenty-seven Hail Marys.
I relax for one tiny moment and it moves,
Explodes.
And I am thrown from the bed.
Dear God help me!
A loose chunk of plaster breaks from the ceiling
And flies through the air.
I try to throw myself in front of it.
I try to cheat fate.
But it is too late.
Too late my love.
The plaster chunk delivers
A cruel but swift death.
I cradle your dented head in my arms and I weep.
I weep for the cruelty of fate,
The loss of true love,
And my lack of muscle control.
I blame myself.
--Ritah Parrish
I Wore a Coin in My Shoe When We Got Married me and my man: we are a good kinda dirty room— the kind where nothing’s in its place but you know just where to find it we are hit and run, hurricane done been through here when no one was lookin’ maybe we been robbed! kinda messy but, hell – you could eat offa the floor if you could find it. we’s jars of pennies on the bedside we’s saved by pocket change in sofa cushions, and a whole lotta makin’ do -- a whole lotta makin’ do – makin’ breakfast outta cigarettes makin’ dinner outta dancin’ and diet coke leave the chicken in the freezer for a party-- PARTY! defrost the bird, make a party outta potluck, so everyone eats well. on our first anniversary we will eat wedding cake we’re stickin’ dollars in please-forget-me places and mama askin’ on the phone --when you gonna do something with that degree? reply: --we’re workin’!— makin’ wings outta words and earthworms makin’ wind outta newspaper and colored glass & we make us get by don’t ask me what we gonna do when winter comes see -- snow is for sledding and green is for gardens grow hope grow strong grow black-eyed susans & carrots & rosemary grow fat yellow melons, and joy just seems to follow! dance hip to hip in the flour for baking and the rent just seems to happen! we’s a beautiful round and sloppy kinda getting’ by this ain’t no skinny love – it’s substantial and fat (how fat is it? this love’s so fat that it’s qualified to sing the solo in church on sunday!) books and love letters shift beneath our feet like autumn falls from trees leaves us nekkid and nekkid’s easy – you know just what to do with it, like a song you wrote yourself! (we make so much nookie, we gotta save it in jars in the attic!) mama PLEASE stop askin’ when we gonna make somethin’ outta ourselves. See, we already makin’ a whole lotta somethin’ outta practically nothin’! --Sou MacMillan |
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