Saturday, February 6, 2016

This is a poem for men

This is a poem for men because 
even women have flirted too much with the ideas of womanhood

like body-parts, like weight plummeting in 
like desire lost between the loins of a fire, between the folding of laundry 

but I promised this is a poem for men 
not body-parts, not songs, not softness

the first time I wrote about a man, not to a man 
I had the image of half a brother, half a father kneading dough in the kitchen 

on an old house I am much too familiar with 
these days. It was the baking smell that woke up the words

I had wondered at how strength can be embodied
above a shoulder, behind an arm that lifts 

a twelve year old ballerina without a pas de deux
to have, to hold- now or later

an arm to beat the sugar in a bowl and another to sift through
experience and a long day of sweat and blood

not alien by different bodies, by faithless names
by grander gestures of interest, or cynical defeat

this is an exclamation of being lulled to sleep 
being triggered by the wave of a track of music

and yes, this is about bodies, skin upon skin 
eyes and ears, mouths and  smiles

this is a poem for the men who lifted me 
the men who loved me, the men who slept in me 
the men who left prints on my skin 
and the man who seduces me to sleep, on hope.

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