Immaculate

May 13, 2018

you ate stained glass
expecting to grow a rose
window in your belly,
every shard a memory
of colour wholly illuminated.
but heaven is a wheel
of silence, her imperfect
eternity revealing the wreck
rooted in your womb.

Hannah Cohen

still as a scar through the screen’s glow : perhaps this is the origin
of my obsession with the colour white : searching to name this shade
colour like bitten bed sheets : colour like a failed dove : or split lip

when red has ceased howling its way to the surface : perhaps the colour
of fog over the river bed that morning : or the colour of concrete
that bleach & blood leave behind : it hangs around her like the word

faggot in the air of the locked bedroom : like drying haemorrhage suspended
between skin & cotton : sideways on the bathroom floor : it hangs around
her like a name : that once belonged only to me : & i think maybe

most of all i am jealous : for any metaphor i can put to it : the dress
is still beautiful : pale & soft & pure : & isn’t this just like my poems?
dressing a violence in something pretty & telling it to dance?

torrin a greathouse

A dream of wine

all those poems about women, written by men: it seemed to be a given that men wrote poems and women…inhabited them. These women were almost always beautiful, but threatened with the loss of beauty, the loss of youth…Or they were beautiful and died young, like Lucy and Lenore. Or…cruel…and the poem reproached her because she had refused to become a luxury for the poet…the girl or woman who tries to write…is peculiarly susceptible to language. She goes to poetry or fiction looking for her way of being in the world…she is looking eagerly for guides, maps, possibilities; and over and over…she comes up against something that negates everything she is about…She finds a terror and a dream…La Belle Dame Sans Merci…but precisely what she does not find is that absorbed, drudging, puzzled, sometimes inspiring creature, herself.

Adrienne Rich
When we dead awaken: Writing as re-vision

We made love

May 13, 2018

We made love and then made love again and then after we had made love once more, quiet and dark and unspeaking and unthinking and then like a shower of meteors on a cold night, we went to sleep.

Ernest Hemingway
True at First Light

young lover required

Now that I have your attention, what I really want to talk about is…sex. I’ve discovered that, contrary to popular opinion, the carnal urge does not decrease with age. Even after a quad bypass, raging emphysema, sags and wrinkles where once there were lithe curves, I’m as lustful now as I was forty years ago.

Back then, men were as numerous as New York taxis and as easy to catch. As soon as one ride was over, there was always another waiting to pick me up, flag up and engine revving. It never occurred to me that they would one day stop running and slow down to a tottering walk.

Not that I couldn’t still nail some old geezer with the aid of a Viagra cocktail or two, but the very thought of touching one of those saggy bags of bones makes me gag. The fact is, no matter how old I get, prime man is still prime man (35-45) and he is the one who still catches my eye and jolts my libido. In other words, despite the depredations time has inflicted upon my corporeal body, the hot twenty-something girl who resides between my ears still rules my loins.

Unfortunately, the men who attract my attention don’t see her. What they see is just another anonymous old lady among the thousands of others who reside in America’s penis. If they do happen to glance my way, they either ignore me completely or ask if they can help me across the street, neither of which option is very satisfying. Evidently, drooling with desire is easily mistaken for drooling with senility.

I keep musing about “Harold and Maude”, deeply envious of the Ruth Gordon character, fully grasping the not-so-subtle subtext of the film. Unfortunately, the chances of finding my Harold are severely limited. I can’t exactly drive my scooter backwards down the street, trolling for boys, or even play grab-ass with the bag boy at Publix without fear of arrest. And even if I were lucky enough to find some hot kid with an unlimited sense of adventure, how could I expect him to undergo the trauma of finding himself on top of a dead lady, regardless of the smile on her face?

I used to think I wanted to die by being shot by a jealous wife, but now I think I just want to be screwed to death. Imagine the wonder of coming and going simultaneously! Sadly, I’m afraid I’ll never know. I’ve finally come to accept the fact that of all the aches, pains, losses and disappointments that accompany the aging process, knowing that I’ll never again feel a hard young body grinding against mine is the most difficult to accept.

So I gave myself a birthday present. I went to the dildo store, bought a lovely little device called a rabbit and named it “Harold”.

Wish me luck.

Ruth Dickson
SEX

Another Sunday –

May 13, 2018