Friday, April 18, 2008

Three by Lyn Lifshin


poems so erotic and tense,
not just nights with a stranger
poems but long married
love, no lust poems and felt,
just felt somehow you weren’t
quite with it? Fell short?
Come on admit it, have you
ever felt as turned off as walking
thru a sex shop to find fur
crotches, crotch-less pants,
more uncomfortable than sexy,
dirty as carrots jerked out of
earth where they’d been in
darkness, earth still clinging.
Haven’t you, be honest, felt
what was forbidden turned you
on more, the press of a thigh
in a smoky café, Austin, some
one you’d never stand near
brushing your teeth and flossing?
Haven’t you ever felt the act was
as little different than being one
of the girls in a whorehouse?
Putting on a show when you
want to sleep and dream of some
one faceless doing what seemed
too clear for magic?



tho I want to feel like I do.
Longer ago than I’ve
known the one I’m with,
it wasn’t the moist gasp
on streets I’d the feel
of his hand on my
neck at the book sale,
fingers on what aches and
the sound of the garage
door opening, how he
sings “I’m home,” at the
stairs with ginger muffins,
pears. I’ve too often needed
to know weekends would
not be alone, am too
tired of putting up a mask
for men who hardly
know me. When a friend
dresses in a g string tinsel
and cheetah pasties to
add spice, charm the man
she knew as a kid or
read of old marrieds
thrashing in smell and wet
skin down there, sperm
and semen, beloved
perfume, I am a ghost
looking down at somebody
in or out of my clothes,
my body, moving
by rote



whore, pretending to
want it? It’s not easy
to admit? Isn’t it easier
sometimes? You go
thru the motions? Get
it done? Some of my
friends buy supplements,
go to a store with crotch-
less panties. I don’t
know if it’s to get into
the mood, or make it happen,
happen fast. I’ve never
gotten pasties. Ok, I
admit it, I like cotton and
flannel. Have you worn
those string thongs that
must crawl up every crack?
Blue lace stretch bikinis
were one thing. Thank
goodness for the men who
couldn’t care if I shave
my legs, rubbed rose
cologne into me. I used to
leave tea rose and Chloe on
lovers I didn’t trust my
self not to care too much for,
prayed jasmine on their
sheets. Have you faked it,
become good at fooling
those sure they can tell?
E mail or fax me, or
better yet, send
details, clues, advice
because there’s gonna
be a time Animal Planet
will turn me on more

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