by Meryl Natchez
(11/19/08)

A Contrary Opinion

The sweet meat of the cock
trusting the dark shark
of the mouth. The innocence
of it—how it can't fake
its childlike greed. The tongue
travels its ribs and ridges
touching the curly damp below. A feast
of texture—the cock an obliging guest
at the feast.
               And the taste of it!
The fishy flesh warm
against the tongue and then
the spurt, a savory custard-puree
of celery and clams.
Pure protein.

And how shyly the cock retreats,
nesting back into its lair, moist
with gratitude. Yes,
without meaning in any way
to objectify the male
and assuming
reciprocity, variety, and tenderness
I have to say, for some of us
it's not a chore.

Penis Envy

All right, I want one. Though
when I had one in a dream
it took all my attention, hanging out there, moving
right from the root. And the constant need
to be stroked. I'm amazed that men
who have them, can think about anything
else. Maybe they don't, trying diligently
to be sensitive with that big thing
throbbing all the time, insistent
muscle, like a fist
banging on the table: more
wine, more women, more song.

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