Love Letter to Irigaray

Phase One, in which Porridge Gets Her Oats

If only incidentally I turned around & you were not watching Bambi. You were not
in the forest fire scene after Bambi’s mother gets shot.

If only incidentally you said
at least this means
you’re powerful. Bullshit
& you chose it.

“All bets” I signed our last
last accidentally. More power
to me, bets makes more
sense than best.

Thank god I didn’t proofread;
thank the other god I’m not
Prufrock, the mermaids better
sing or I’m good
I’m gone—hate to say it but
gone for good, sane enough.

*

Love to say it
but too much Bible
too much early
& the clean
flagging of females
never quite seizes
away, ensconced
long before King Solomon’s
concubines’ cucumbers came
out as the chosen ones:
Solomon was
very very wise
Solomon had
seven hundred foreign wives
three hundred concubines
Solomon was
very very wise.

*

Never a cuddler, always a cutter,
forget toddlers. Plus, to be true
many claim glossies do
it too. “Catalog” & “magazine”
said the same to us all
once, long before this shit
went down, ages before
your pink robe &
my sensational comedrops
said one.

                   One day, when you stop
running, you may infer
the best of all
my bowing.

*

Yesterday, the first summer day of a spring that itself still has not sprung, I bumped into Maggie—who works at egg—outside of Gap. Gap is far from egg, but Maggie, server at egg for nearly a decade, is well-estranged in the free-range. At egg, she serves eggs & eggs & eggs—the best eggs, anyway we like them. egg refuses to capitalize any of its egg letters: not the e & none of the gs. Part & parcel of an ongoing effort to give away nothing to the authorities. Maggie is not someone I know, well, well. Her face is stillworn soft, in cahoots with beauty, & we talk: she walks everywhere, never takes the subway, refuses to own a bike, believes there are twelve years in a decade, but who am I to say?  These are the kinds I look forward to bumping into, nose-to-tail.

Phase Two, in which I Dig a Pinky

To make any girl 
lose her head 
move & love late          
night deli what
a find. Not too many           
power moves—that was 
last night: thrusting          
bills on the corner 
ground, at the feet          
of the Pink designer,
creator of her own          
underwear, curator
of my ex's sweatpants          
stuffed up my 
nostrils. Folks need          
underwear, folks need 
sweatpants, folks need          
chicks. Sexy & soft
soft & semi, it might be          
fun to live forever. More 
power: she did trick          
a man into carrying her
on his back across          
the East River but does 
that count? No one would
say he was sexy.