For whom no subject is taboo,
oh child of nurture, you spared none
the vigor of your blossoming.
Back to Earth, changing woman
visible echo of the season,
zero bra, natural lip and hair
You forged your name in the ashes
of a forgotten roach, somewhere
in the apartments of Maryland.
No wonder girls like you used to
be locked in iron chastity!
Every gesture opens a valve
wherefrom the stuff oozes sexy,
void of self-consciousness, free
and arousing, if not embarrassing.
Your poems were all: I feel sex,
all around and it’s all good babe,
I see sex like Shakespeare must have,
I hear sex above and next door—
only makes me want to fuck more!
Who’re you to tell me I can’t??
I’ll have even more sex!
And I’ll write snarky sex stories,
to read out loud and hear you cringe!
Never thinking once that it sent
a weird message, acting confused
when professors asked you for dates,
when boyfriends became jealous—
the innocence one must have
to claim innocence at all!
I remember it well, and yet
not at all. It was startling
sometimes how little it took
to make something unintended
happen much too quickly. One learns
not everyone has your best
interests in mind. And that the joke
on your lips always comes out wrong,
turns of phrase, suggestive banter,
though a true mark of exposure
to Mel Brooks humor, Zappa,
cheeky sixties sex romps, come off
like you have plans or at least thoughts,
realizing too late your conversant.
Hearing the joke, escaping the mouth,
Putting the brakes on just a second
Ah, the folly of youth is none
so damning as that of the girl
who was too eager to learn
that everyone else does it too,
and that some even like it,
but know you catch too many flies
when you got that much honey. Girl,
if you got it you best flaunt it,
only know that like your night cream,
one chocolate sandwich cookie,
and use of the term “Lolita,”
a little bit goes a long way.