Fetish

by Arlene Ang
(12/18/02)

I confess that something about
clean sheets sullies me,
leads me to cross my legs
in fear of unstopping steam.

Secretions if aroused enough
can burn -- and I badly need
legs since my mother's modesty
requires that I try at least to run.

It is not a matter of silk.
Ironed cotton stretched
on a mattress already
bloats bed with sex.

My therapist tells me
to turn a blind eye,
that four-posters are
not the enemy; guilt is.

I dare not say that I've been
sleeping unrecorded in the nude,
that the smell of tumbled wash
is enough to lick me warm.

From the couch, I watch abstract
office paintings form multi-colored
sheets. Primly I cross my legs
to cover the sweat of orgasm.

©2002 by Arlene Ang

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator, volunteer Web designer, part-time poet and occasional writer. She edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Pierian Springs, Poet's Canvas, Sometimes City, Sidereality, and Tryst.