Pussy
I don’t like it. The word, I mean.
Applaud other women who say it
loud and proud (All hail Cardi B).
Just doesn’t feel right
in my mouth. Too twee. Squishy.
Anyway, I’m a dog person.
But it’s the word I reach for as I silently
rehearse how I’ll describe the ache
between my legs to my gynecologist:
my pussy hurts. Like it’s been kicked.
Cunt feels too tough. It’d never admit
to feeling pain. Vagina’s imprecise
because the pain is external. Vulva
though most accurate anatomically,
sounds too formal, like someone’s rich aunt.
Pussy elicits sympathy. Who wouldn’t
feel sorry for a kicked pussy?
Even if it was misbehaving. Climbing
the curtains again. But I panicked
in the doctor’s office in my paper dress.
Said “vulva.” She nodded.
Said everything looked normal.
Probably hormones. Not the concern
I was hoping for. No medicine to quiet
the throbbing. No words of consolation:
Oh no! Poor pussy! Who would ever
hurt such an innocent thing?
*
Why I Could Never Be Poly
My favorite Tom Waits song is “Ol’ 55.”
Some prick in a bar scoffed at me.
Said it was his most commercial.
I almost countered that it’s actually “Downtown Train,”
insisted I adore his scary muppet tracks, too,
but didn’t engage. I make everyone shut up
every time it comes on. It’s not the tinkling
piano, the slow, steady climb to the chorus,
the cheesy lickety-splitly. Not even
the impossible-not-to-sing-out-loud,
letmetellyouthatthefeeling’s getting stronger.
It’s the ecstasy of leaving.
The solitary longing.
Rapturous daydreaming
of the one you love after you’ve
gone. Their scent still
on your skin, Lady Luck
your only companion.
That’s when my reclusive heart
beats strongest. When I feel
most alive. Something approaching
holy. When the one I love
becomes the fading starlight,
the sun coming up.
*
When I Think about Love
I picture Great Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen in Value City.
Married over 50 years, she’s bent over, gawking
at the watches backlit in the glass display case
guarded by the worker with the key dangling
from a spiral phone cord bracelet. Her eyes
aren’t so good anymore so she gets down
on all fours for a better look. After admiring
one with pretty gold numbers, subtle
cubic zirconia accents, nothing too flashy,
she realized she couldn’t get back up.
Bad knees decided they were done
for the day. A few weeks later, holding court
in Pop-Pop’s rec room, Joe recounted
the play-by-play, First she rolled over to one
side, and then she rolled to the other.
Asked what he did to help, I told her “Get up!
You’re embarrassing me.” Helen, timing impeccable,
True gentleman. Everyone’s in stitches
Helen grins at Joe, still teasing her like
when they were kids, before their five babies,
seven grandbabies and counting. I can’t remember
how she got up, if she ever got that watch.
I do know that no one wears watches anymore.
Just mini-computers that buzz, alerting you
to check your phone, display your vital signs
to remind you that you’re a mammal. I know
that Value City declared bankruptcy in 2008,
the year Helen passed, as if in tribute.
