Wednesday, September 9, 2009

what women know

(Usual caveat: no poem worth its salt is ever about only one person. Well, that's a lie, but this one isn't.)

You think it's the size,
The thrusting hard thighs,
That makes her moan
When you two are alone.

Caught up in your myth,
Your physical gift,
Only from skin and out
Is what it's about.

You're wrong, but then,
Like most men,
You cannot fathom how it can be
Erogenous to see

You can't see the rest
Beneath her peaked breast,
For who thinks of emotion
With bodies in motion?

So she came to your bed
With sex in her head.
But why was it you she chose
When she wanted to take off her clothes?

My friend, what put her there
Was not just your hair,
Your hypnotic eyes,
Or your tumnescent prize

No--your pain and your need,
Weakness, and greed,
Your adolescent love of toys,
Your need to make noise.

The way you love your mother,
How you always need another.
Your talking and singing,
Are what keep her stringing
Along in your wake,
Expecting heartbreak,
But alive at your touch
Saying little, feeling much.

So bodies meet in a sacred communion
And sparks fly from your needs' union.

No comments:

Post a Comment