Pork Rinds
We lie down on the frosty waterbed
To start. I watch her work
Down there and carefully stifle a yawn.
It's not for love of labia that
I'm doing this, by God.
And after a while, she guides my hand
Somewhere I've never seen, and never felt.
And when I touch her, I am amazed
That something so simple should please her so much.
She grips me then with no grip at all
But now she is aroused in full, I think.
After fumbling with condoms,
She guides me down again and into her.
Again she grips me with no grip at all.
But this warmth is familiar, so
I try to plunge to deeper warmth.
She gasps and starts to moan.
A ton of textbooks metaphors flood my head:
Swords in sheaths, trains into tunnels,
And otters diving into shells.
I promise myself I will not write about this.
Some time later, I look down at her,
And sweat pours into my eyes.
She squirms, her face in seeming pain,
Breasts still heaving beneath my chest,
And in that moment I understand
My lack of desire for her, for them.
I've never wanted to hurt a woman like this.
She screams again, and I give up.
As I collapse, she lies to me
About how often she's come,
And then she yawns expansively,
Rolls over, and falls asleep.
I feel the cold of the waterbed,
And so I huddle against her back
And try to stay warm.
When finally I fall asleep,
I dream of men
I'm not afraid of hurting.
� 1997 Tony Whitt
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