Dorothy Barresi
Body Says
Body says, meet the animal
who made you.
Body says, I’ll take mine
with a little tornado sauce, please,
and cunnilingus on the side.
Body says break and shine.
Body says
a diphtherial cough is not a sign of
interstitial lung disease, but
jazz fans, gun owners, and those
who lack confidence in the president
are among the most
sexually active Americans.
Body says
I think I hear cries for help.
Body says
I’m the kind of guy who’d steal your stove
then come back later
for the smoke.
Body says smoke.
Find a vein.
Body says, butter aside, I never
found Marlon Brando
all that convincing in Last Tango, and further,
Body says pleasure, ruffle, nipple,
cupcake, home,
tendon, canker, tumor, tongue, mouth agape.
Bloody stool. Metastases—oh, Body says, how embarrassing;
it won’t happen again.
Look, Body says: jumpshot, fadeaway, fakeout, doublepump,
alley-oop—what did you expect, anyway?
A perfectly natural pain?
Kiss me, Body says.
Body says
I’m talking sublingual, baby, the deep deep, the whole
insane molecular level of you in me right now.
Kiss me,
never the same way twice.
Yes, dear God, like that, like that, I love it when you yes—oh,
by the way, darling,
try to forget me.
It’s for the best, Body says.
You be Buddy Holly,
I’ll be the plane.