Hi! I'm new to this forum and thought I'd start off by adding some content to my blog. This is a piece of prose poetry that I recently wrote for a poetry workshop at Hunter College. The assignment was to try to emulate Margaret Atwood (who also happens to be my favorite writer).
I'm not sure what these mean anymore. The sex dreams. At first the dream presents me with the man beneath the bar light. Blond, brown? Facial hair? It's too dark to tell. But I'm aroused by the neckline, light and slender, like the stem of a glass.
Too slim. Too slender.
I look closely.
Do it till my eyes hurt. Till there are two. That's the idea. Because as he approaches, I hear the click click click of heels. The she that was a he is passing by me. But what do I do now? Do I call her? And what are the words? “Hello beautiful.” “Do you have the time madam?” “Could you spare a moment?” Do I want something serious? Do I just want to look?
Do I want?
Before I can make up my mind that thing between my legs has changed like a revolving door. Voila! This is quite common. The dream decides tonight I’d like to be a man. I’m done with heels. They’re like corsets -- like constantly falling downhill. Those go in the furnace. I’d like to sit with my legs far apart on the train. I’m done with floral prints, decoupage, home economics. In the furnace too.
She's drifts nearby, spoon caught between red lips. We’re laughing in a pile of whipped cream. There are papayas and strawberries and cantaloupe. Seven layered cake with an infinite amount of layers. I’m eating and eating, but the food is bland and makes me feel a little nauseous. I still haven’t gotten to having sex yet. What if I wake before we finish eating? We try to find a room to be alone, but all the hinges are broken and all the locks are faulty and the bell hop keeps coming in and asking if “That’ll be all miss. That’ll be all miss?”
But my brain remembers men. Something about men. What was it? Men with back slicked hair and milky skin. In love dreams, they are always men. The feeling of their warm breathe on my neck, or their bodies sinking into mine let me know. But where are these men? Their bodies as delicate as the furtive creaking of bare-wood floors? Minds all vacuity save for the senses. They do not sully the moment of tenderness with thought. I can’t imagine the thoughts of a man, without it ruining that moment.
And so I dream of women. Women with forked tongues and hour glass torsos. I can be their lover if needed. I can undo my tie. I can be the lover they were looking for.
In a dream you are always your own lover.
It’s no good to realize this. They start to change again. To fade and glitter.
You can see through them.
I’m tired of this. Tired of the sex dreams. I want to wake up now and do the laundry. I can tolerate sitting with my legs closed on the train for today. I’ll wear that skirt. See, it’s not burned at all! Though it does have a moth hole. I’ll put it on if I can get up. You see, I’m distracted by the sunlight. It’s warmth – like the warmth of those breaths on my neck.
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