Love Poem

The muscles of our love atrophy
I watch the sentiment between us,
watch as is slowly, slowly, begins to rot
smelling of silence and distrust
oozing the pus of discontent,
your doubts, like maggots eating away
at its rotting flesh,
turning into flies, that buzz,
incessant
like my doubts.


I watch you struggle
with the clasp of your dress
in the mirror,
as I struggle with the knot of my tie.
Our eyes slide past each other,
and we leave, late, and arrive,
later.
Ignoring each the other,
the niggling presence,
I am the shadow in the corner of your eye,
you are the shuffling sound,
catching on my ears
as I focus elsewhere.

I don't know if these are two poems or one.

Vagina Poetry

I want to be that girl who
always write poetry about her vagina
like, "Do we have to listen to another charming line
about your labia? Again?"
But  guess what for once
I want you to think about it
think about my VAGINA
but not the way you think about it
some warm
wet
wanted
wanting
secret place for you to BURY YOURSELF.
I want you to think about it
the way I do.
I want you to think about a largely nerveless channel
that I am stuck with
damned by
told to live my life with it as my guiding principle.
Because that old joke,
"What do you call the useless piece of skin around the vagina?"
is more than true.
I am sorry I am a woman.
I am sorry that you look at me and think
"Why should I have to hear about her body?"
when you want to tell me how to wear it
my useless piece of skin.
I am sorry that you don't know
what it's like to be terrified that
if you're not careful
something will start to grow
where you don't want anything to grow.
I watched my best friend lose her mind
on birth control.
The mood swings brought to the forefront
some kind of anxietymentalillnessdepression
she'd been hiding.
Well, I'm not hiding it,
I wear my lows out in the open
and I'm terrified that--
I will have no option but a flimsy piece of latex
to keep me safe.
I'm sorry that amongst the useless flaps and folds
of my useless skin
my clitoris hides where you don't think of it
because, you know,
when I touch myself there
everything is beautiful.
But you aren't interested in the useless ways
of making me feel good.
You are interested in seeing my vagina
the way YOU see my vagina,
but that doesn't feel good to me.

So next time you decide
that "Those girls" who "only write poetry about their vaginas"
aren't worth any of your time or interest.
Maybe think about what they're trying to tell you
and if you have something nice to say
they might need to hear it.


There was this kid at fall orientation who talked about not wanting to have to hang out with girl slam poets who only write poetry about their vaginas. I took his point; that being bombarded by angry feminist shit day in day out is no fun. But the way he phrased it made me SO ANGRY. Because I'm like, "Fuck you I have to put up with phallic imagery EVERYWHERE and dicks and dicks and dicks LIKE YOU and if I want to write poetry about my vagina I FUCKING WILL DAMMIT." I hate being made to feel guilty for it.

Poetry?

poetry is not an idea
that I have spent any time revisiting
she asked me,
"Do you write poetry?"
I told her,
"Not for years."

but.
would it be so bad
to tell a story with
sil-
ly line
breaks or
obscure and melodious
language?

or perhaps a short story, or two, the old "once upon a time" and a princess and a terrible dragon or a tall tower, the charming prince who shows up, only to find that he isn't needed there after all, or a young man on a journey about town, perhaps for a cup of coffee or a magazine, and the people he meets and the thoughts that slide, sudden and perhaps a little dangerous, into his head...

would do me some good.