I think I may have had a breakthrough with a poem I've been dealing with for a year and a half now. I think I've managed to eliminate the vulgarity of the original poem while salvaging those phrases I really loved. I'm talking about none other than "Muse." I wrote about it a few days ago and the original version in all its sexdom is also noted further in the past somewhere on this blog. The extravagant format I originally placed it in, meant to somewhat mimic Opal Adisa's "The Painter, is gone here but nonetheless the poem stands for itself. (Also, this is something I will not be ashamed of getting critiqued by my recommender.) Enjoy!
I come like relief from heat,
chilled breeze blown
through a shaft somewhere
beyond your head. Women know me
by my stance, legs so wide I can easy
fit their man inside. I hold my body like
the haughty bitch they think
I am, watching their man
suck the side of his mouth,
rub palms against jeans,
trying to keep the silhouette of my
nakedness from ballooning outside
his head or pushing out onto
the balls of his eyes. You see, I
exist to pluck passion from the stockpile of metal
it may be obscured in, to have men want to utter
the syllables of my name, sounds riding on an
upturned tongue, lips pursed as if awaiting a kiss.
Like summoning a demon, or pleading in prayer
that’s what wanting looks like. But I am just a
woman, my serpentine flesh is not the eve of nativity
or naiveté, but with it alone I’ve nuked saints
and gods, broken up and thrashed time, all
because men must have me. They never
lose my scent, their noses snuffing far away
bars scattered with my aura, the air – the way it
taste of ripe mango after I’ve left. I don’t need to see
them to know they do it. I can read the room’s Braille
in the cushion of my fingertips when I wave good night.
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