She told me;
"I want it to smell like snowfall in September
gingerbread and old words
fresh laundry in the wintertime,
when moisture rises and scents freeze seconds after recognition
a calendar, compass, solar-operated windmill
with a confidence of numbers and directional patterns
your workday: nine hours: no lunch-break
high-impact exercise—no shower
fermented dairy and honey
dried apricot commingling with whiskey
morning breath after a night of oral sex and no mouthwash:
I want it to smell like a cun t.
I want it to sound like Lou Reed serenading Andy Warhol’s co ck
Anne Sexton eating out Virginia Woolf
breaking between orgasms to reapply red lipstick and smoke a joint
erotica read backwards : I don’t mind beginning with an orgasm
slammed skin against water
sixteen cellos playing in both ears,
a waterfall of fingered strings, until blisters form until each traveling note descends
a forced entrance of F sharps, Bs, G flat
the removal of seeds from a pomegranate,
muted tearing of flesh
repetition of push ups, when chest-skin stretches and
moans emit from within cardio-inebriated organ
I want it to sound like a steaming iron against wrinkled gauze,
the sizzle of smoothness,
blended with coarse hairs leaving a mark.
fingerprints tapping against plastic keys, spelling out restrictions, or
the migration of a tongue licking one side of sticky, stuffed, folded, addressed
a moment of silence, when breaths gain momentum and search for an exit sign
when gags take the shape of a padlock
I want it to sound like slowly stirred soup,
progression of boiling water
do you prefer manager or supervisor?
are you allergic to adhesives?
I want it to sound like me inside you.
I want it to taste like bananas foster or
beer on a day of ninety-three degrees
blood from all the circulation.
lemon bars with a weather forecast of sifted sugar confusing the color
tin. copper. rind. leather./friction.
I want it to taste like jalapenos,
curving teeth and teardrops competing with sweat stains.
I want it to taste like everything you’ve ever eaten, questioned
like the bark you rubbed up against that time,
giving your thighs seven splinters
and my pus sy three orgasms.
like the cotton you’ve climbed into, out of, and tried on
curdled celebrations, incomplete
in need of an ending…
your vibrators: the red one. striped blue. the other made of glass.
your dietary restrictions,
and the chocolate bar you slip between lips when no one is around.
I want it to taste like a cun t.
I want it to feel like four-hundred thread count,
woven tightly per square inch
an intricacy of fibers and leftover positions.
a final joint after nineteen years of dedicated inhales and swollen lungs
the expense of tar and excluded conversations
love affair leaning against signs measuring
twenty feet from establishment
flavored staleness and shame.
can it feel like that?
can it feel like that?
I want it to look like a Kandinsky, colorful and confusing
vast and open to interpretation
I will need some time to study it:
decipher the angles
I am slow at mathematics—
refuse to use calculators,
so I will need to use my fingers
and when I am done
and no longer thirsty
or conceivably hungry,
you will offer me a napkin
in the shape of your mouth
wait twenty minutes
until I am ready for seconds."