Poetry Sunday

In last Wednesday's post, I wrote about the 14 foods that are supposed to help men be better lovers. You may recall that I noted in that post (as I have noted before) that my posts that involve sex tend to spike my readership numbers. And so, in keeping with my desire to flagellate deceased equines, let's work sex into Poetry Sunday with this poem by Faith Shearin ...

Birds and Bees

When my daughter starts asking I realize
I don't know which, if any, birds
have penises. I can't picture how swans

do it. I'm even confused about bees:
that fat queen and her neurotic workers,
her children grown in cells. I'm worried

by turtles and snakes: their parts hidden
in places I have never seen. How do they
undress? Long ago, awash in college

boyfriends, I knew a little about sex.
I understood the dances and calls,
the pretty plumage. Now, I am as ignorant

as a child. We have gone to the library
to find books though I know sex
is too wild for words. The desire to be

kissed is the desire to live forever
in the mouth of pleasure. My God
I can never tell my daughter the truth.

It is a secret the way spring is a secret,
buried in February's fields. It is a secret
the way babies are a secret: hidden

by skin or egg, their bodies made of darkness.

Yes, in the spring our thoughts turn to such things, don't they?

Have a good day, and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo