knows enough to let purrs / bubble from her mouth
To Jouissance
Lance Larsen
To spell you is to drown in vowels, to pronounce you
is to let guttural joy form in the back of my throat,
then roll forth, like northern lights
booming above a logging camp in Michigan.
Disappointed in my metaphor? What did you expect
from a man? If only I had an estrogen
factory of my own. If only I could feel the fluttery,
everywhere she-pleasure you bring to lucky
women. I mean the buzz that overtakes
a new mother nursing in a booth at Denny’s, eyes
blissing out, body serenely electric.
I mean whatever state my cousin Erica falls
into when someone braids her hair
in the middle of church-retarded Erica who washes
tables at McDonald’s but can’t read a menu.
She knows enough to close her eyes and give
pleasure more room, knows enough to let purrs
bubble from her mouth, the liquid gold
on her head dividing into glorious threes,
my jealousy tripling. Do you sometimes make
exceptions and visit not just the Ericas
of the world, but the Erics? I’m thinking
of the twenty-something kid last week who popped
up from his seat and ran to the front of the bus.
That’s my old man, he said, pointing
to the cement truck stopped beside us at a red light.
Hey Dad, I’m over here, look, and Ernie,
our glum undertaker of a driver, broke
the rules for once and swung open the door
at the intersection. Surely you must have blessed
that transaction: a grizzled duffer
all smiles like a governor running for re-election,
a tattooed boy leaning out of the bus,
part acrobat, part gargoyle on a New York
brownstone, air crackling between them.
The light turned green, the afternoon sped up,
and the old duffer said, Hey Tommy, nice hat,
you ready for bowling Saturday night?-take her easy.
Who can explain where the world ends and a son
begins, how molecules of desire map
the body? They waved, father and son,
like they’d never see each other again in this time zone.
And we watched: hungry, eavesdropping citizens
of the bus, remembering some ecstasy
we fell into once and didn’t deserve, sitting
on our hands to keep from adding amens to the air.
Lance Larsen
To spell you is to drown in vowels, to pronounce you
is to let guttural joy form in the back of my throat,
then roll forth, like northern lights
booming above a logging camp in Michigan.
Disappointed in my metaphor? What did you expect
from a man? If only I had an estrogen
factory of my own. If only I could feel the fluttery,
everywhere she-pleasure you bring to lucky
women. I mean the buzz that overtakes
a new mother nursing in a booth at Denny’s, eyes
blissing out, body serenely electric.
I mean whatever state my cousin Erica falls
into when someone braids her hair
in the middle of church-retarded Erica who washes
tables at McDonald’s but can’t read a menu.
She knows enough to close her eyes and give
pleasure more room, knows enough to let purrs
bubble from her mouth, the liquid gold
on her head dividing into glorious threes,
my jealousy tripling. Do you sometimes make
exceptions and visit not just the Ericas
of the world, but the Erics? I’m thinking
of the twenty-something kid last week who popped
up from his seat and ran to the front of the bus.
That’s my old man, he said, pointing
to the cement truck stopped beside us at a red light.
Hey Dad, I’m over here, look, and Ernie,
our glum undertaker of a driver, broke
the rules for once and swung open the door
at the intersection. Surely you must have blessed
that transaction: a grizzled duffer
all smiles like a governor running for re-election,
a tattooed boy leaning out of the bus,
part acrobat, part gargoyle on a New York
brownstone, air crackling between them.
The light turned green, the afternoon sped up,
and the old duffer said, Hey Tommy, nice hat,
you ready for bowling Saturday night?-take her easy.
Who can explain where the world ends and a son
begins, how molecules of desire map
the body? They waved, father and son,
like they’d never see each other again in this time zone.
And we watched: hungry, eavesdropping citizens
of the bus, remembering some ecstasy
we fell into once and didn’t deserve, sitting
on our hands to keep from adding amens to the air.