at leisure. But keep

a sweater within reach.

In case the handyman

barges in.

Look forward to the day

when I’m old enough

to not care.

At sixty-six, not there yet.

At sixty-six I watch the years

gather in the cenotes of my eyes,

in the theater drapery of the neck,

and—surprise!—

the dolphin pale underbelly

of my upper arms.

Trickster time arrived

while I slept.

It takes some getting used to.

I watch my transformation

bemused. Just as I once

watched myself alter into

my woman’s body. Watch

and marvel now as then.

Relieved to some degree.

Fascinated with where

I am and where I am

traveling.

Poor Sol.

Stranded without a man.

To tell the truth,

I don’t want to see

someone my own age

naked. Nor have

him see me.

Nothing to do with

shame or modesty.

More akin to fear

we might laugh.

I read while

the new pups

yap in the garden.

Relieved wherever

my steps take me.

Dólares or dolores.

Accept whatever

is on my path.

Naranja completa

i.

Do I miss

Having a man

Enter me?

Crack

Me in two?

Before. After.

I do

Not.

Truth be

Told,

Never.

Am Cavafy

In love

With memory.

Alive with

Story. Do

I miss the

Acapulco rush

Of the dive

Into the fire

Of foam?

The plummeting

Into the sea

Of myself?

Profound mystery?

I do

Not. The

Wound between

My legs taut

As cat gut

On guitar.

An Egyptian

Tomb winched

And looted.

Relieved

To be my own

Destroyer.

I enter my

Body with

A poem slick

With my own

Spit.

Slide and grunt.

A nice, tight fit.

ii.

In my Taipei

Dream

I’m holding

A penis

In my hand.

A scepter.

A wand

Thick as a cop’s

Baton.

Hefty warm.

Pulsing.

Definitely

Alive.

A thing

Attached to no one.

All my own.

A weapon to tap

On my palm.

And ask, Now,

What

Do I want

With this?

You Better Not Put Me in a Poem

One had a long curved scimitar like a Turkish moon.

One had a fat tamale plug.

One had a baby pacifier.

One had a lightbulb he was proud of.

It gave me the creeps.

I can never forget it.

I could never pick it out in a police line-up.

Not in a million years.

Not even with an AK-47 to the side of my head.

One liked to pull it out like a switchblade when least expected.

At his mother’s.

Standing in the bathroom, the door open.

His ma in the kitchen talking on the phone.

Me on the couch trying to read.

He thought this was sexy.

One liked to skim Playboy magazines when we were making love.

I found this humiliating.

One liked to put his hands on his hips like he was Mister Big Stuff.

This pissed me off.

One liked to dip his fingers in his semen and lick them.

He drove me wild.