Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Poetry about that

I have to type up two poems. For workshop. 

Okay, only one really. But since I'm working on line breaks for the one due tomorrow, why not commit the one I jotted down during Lit by Women while I'm at it? 

And why does any of that seem like such a chore at the moment? 

(I'm crushing on philosophy. It is proving somewhat problematic.)

I want my husband to come home. I want him to get over his lingering hacking-o-the-lung. I want to kiss him full on, without need for a facial condom. I want more than that, but for the effects of his reliance on Nyquil...

I realize the other day—and this is blatant TMI—that in my life's sexual experience I am missing reference for a partner older than 28 and younger than 48. That's twenty years of male drive for which I have no clue. It's like jumping from an Old World map to a satellite image and being expected to understand the development of everything in between.

LDS women aren't supposed to think like this, are they?

I suck at dough and cookie-cutters. 

I read a fabulous poem by Mark Strand today, Dream Testicles, Vanished Vaginas. If you haven't read it, you should. (And the whole book of prose poetry while you're at it.) If you won't, I'll just say that you're missing out. And I am truly sad for you.

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