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