Jack-in-the-Pulpit No. IV, 1930
by Georgia O'Keeffe, Alfred Stieglitz Collection, Bequest of Georgia O'Keeffe
Happy Poetry Thursday!
This poem I consider an oldie but a goodie, so I'm resisting every urge to edit. The subject matter and language is a bit explicit. Definitely not what I call "funny" but it brings a smile to my face nonetheless.
“Has it been there the whole time?” You ask. Curious spectator,
trapped in the bombed out crash site of my room. Silent. Kinetic.
Only an hour ago I was staring up at you, nostrils flaring, thrusting
deep within my thickets of pubic hair, a thousand coiled snakes
guarding my stamen, my Jack in the Pulpit. We lay among
candle wicks, burnt into black nubs; sheets filled with moons and stars,
balled up in the right corner of my bed. The wet tangy smell
of sex and sweat hangs over this lost weekend, the weekend our
instinct kicked in. This weekend we became carnivores, going
to that place, that wildlife refuge where the most feared, protected
animals roam; where the mattress shakes and bangs into the walls,
the bed springs coil and recoil from the weight of pleasure. Tonight
we slip and slide and pull the room into us, taking the chairs,
the table, the bed, the paint off the walls, leaving here nothing,
nothing but this.
After posting here, visit yesterday's entry and tell me about the one poem that gets you going when the going gets tough.