in the 70s they called it 'bush.'
I learned this from the Joy of Sex furtively pulled from my parent's bookshelf,
musty stiff thing, the way I imagined sex to be - secret - not
so much any more now 'quim' seems more appropriate,
the maquis was before his time the word is slippery sweaty naked
stubbly if you leave it a few days. Now I spend so much time contemplating
the eradication of the pretty chestnut hairs on my cunt I didn't care
before when 'bush' was still fresh in my mind. The first time I reached down a girl's
pants and found plucked chicken skin I was terrified no one told me
we were supposed to do that.
Now I perform these shower gymnastics as a sacrifice
for the mythical next hand to come between
my clean practical underwear and my cropped quim. An offering,
so that there might be another hand, and another, and so on.
The body of this text works for me. The title doesn't though. I think that the long, self-conscious parenthetical undercuts the poem. I don't think your title should apologize for, or be self-effacing about, what you're doing down below (so to speak). Gutsy work. Nice to see you posting so much lately. Best wishes, Tom
The body of this text works for me. The title doesn't though. I think that the long, self-conscious parenthetical undercuts the poem. I don't think your title should apologize for, or be self-effacing about, what you're doing down below (so to speak). Gutsy work. Nice to see you posting so much lately.
Best wishes,
Tom
Thank you both for your very kind comments.
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