II. The Men

The Connoisseuse of Slugs

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs

I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the

naked jelly of those gold bodies,

translucent strangers glistening along the

stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies

at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel

to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,

but I was not interested in that. What I liked

was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the

odor of the wall, and stand there in silence

until the slug forgot I was there

and sent its antennae up out of its

head, the glimmering umber horns

rising like telescopes, until finally the

sensitive knobs would pop out the ends,

delicate and intimate. Years later,

when I first saw a naked man,

I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet

mystery reenacted, the slow

elegant being coming out of hiding and

gleaming in the dark air, eager and so

trusting you could weep.

Poem to My First Lover

Now that I understand, I like to

think of your terror—handed a girl

mad with love, her long, fresh

raw body thin as a pared

soap, breasts round and high and

opalescent as bubbles of soap,

laid across your legs, 18,

untouched. I like to understand your

terror, now, the way you took her,

deflowering her as you’d gut a fish,

leaving in the morning with talk of a wife.
      Now that I

know about the fear of love

I like to think of her white-hot body

greenish as a fish just landed, quivering and

slapping on a rock—fallen into your

lap, man, shuddering like your cock,

a woman crazed with love, hot off the

press, sharp as a tool never used,

blazing across your thighs and all you could

do in your fear was firk out her cherry like an

escargot from its dark shell and then

toss her away. I am in awe of terror that will

waste so much, I am in love with the girl who went

offering, came to you and

laid it out like a feast on a platter, the

delicate flesh—yes, yes,

I accept the gift.

New Mother

A week after our child was born,

you cornered me in the spare room

and we sank down on the bed.

You kissed me and kissed me, my milk undid its

burning slip-knot through my nipples,

soaking my shirt. All week I had smelled of milk,

fresh milk, sour. I began to throb:

my sex had been torn easily as cloth by the

crown of her head, I’d been cut with a knife and

sewn, the stitches pulling at my skin—

and the first time you’re broken, you don’t know

you’ll be healed again, better than before.

I lay in fear and blood and milk

while you kissed and kissed me, your lips hot and swollen

as a teen-age boy’s, your sex dry and big,