Hey!
⬇
Everybody knows
women’s lips
are a metaphor
for the labia. Some women
paint both. A kiss,
therefore, is a trial run,
a suggestion, an audition.
⬇
We kiss and
according to tradition
forget what we remembered
We fuck and
according to propriety
forget what we knew
We put our fingers in each other’s pudding and
according to the tale
forget all we learned
⬇
I am not the exegete of the canon of love.
⬇
My new shoes and my scarlet lipstick, they comfort me
My Lady Chic razor and my index to U.S. area codes, they comfort me|
My heart and my haplography, they comfort me
My sense of duty and my brooch, they comfort me
My pen and my history, they urge me
My glossolalia and my shaking teeth, they torment me
My brain’s cavaedium and my vapidity, they keep me
My cocktail and my lachrymosity, they comfort me
My plain dress and my long braid, they comfort me
My lover, my lover, comfort me
My burn and my honor, they urge me
My lips and my snaky tongue, they comfort me
⬇
The world is full of weedy things:
rosy wolfsnails, roaches, fire
ants, water hyacinths,
fruit flies, kudzu, humans.
Noxious, reproductive.
⬇
My night dreams go out to the desert and
perish there from self-imposed privation
or natural selection.
⬇
Jesus’ mother Mary was the cleverest bitch
of all time, the smartest girl ever—
convinced not just father and fiancé
but all posterity that
indiscretion was divine intervention, that
she was still a virgin and
her bastard child, a savior.
Jesus, the good son, the mama’s boy,
playing along all along or also
deceived by her story.
Just goes to show:
wishing makes it so
