Sex at sixty-three - Tanka prose
Sex at sixty-three - Tanka prose
It’s been years since the color of my sex is red. Nothing
seems to interest me. Is it fear? Those old lovers stay away;
the new one’s lie, no, vie for my paycheck. Salt and pepper
hair, bald spots, and I am so fat that who would want me anyway.
to all the boys
that are so smart,
I have let my anger pass,
so while you’re down there
kiss my ass
and I will love again at last. This is not a promise. I’ve begun
a scrapbook with the sole purpose of pinning my sex drive.
You can’t hear it, or see it, or read it, or sing it, specially sing
it, since I don’t rhyme. But you can feel it, my crocodile skin.
Please don’t laugh. It’s not a laughing matter. I’m so lonely
my shoulder bone hurts.
what illness
do I think I have—
the warrens of
my brain dry
and crackle
It’s been years since the color of my sex is red. Nothing
seems to interest me. Is it fear? Those old lovers stay away;
the new one’s lie, no, vie for my paycheck. Salt and pepper
hair, bald spots, and I am so fat that who would want me anyway.
to all the boys
that are so smart,
I have let my anger pass,
so while you’re down there
kiss my ass
and I will love again at last. This is not a promise. I’ve begun
a scrapbook with the sole purpose of pinning my sex drive.
You can’t hear it, or see it, or read it, or sing it, specially sing
it, since I don’t rhyme. But you can feel it, my crocodile skin.
Please don’t laugh. It’s not a laughing matter. I’m so lonely
my shoulder bone hurts.
what illness
do I think I have—
the warrens of
my brain dry
and crackle
Comments
Post a Comment