A Poem by Linda Neal
I think about penises a lot.
The other night
at the meeting about a local senior housing plan
I looked right there at the middle of the speaker’s
body, between belt and crotch of his gabardine slacks
half-listening to his description of the parking structure
while trying to determine if he dressed left or right.
Just when I thought I had it figured out
another guy walked onto the stage in khakis
with a low-slung belt.
I was forced
to look at the package in his fitted pants
he stuffed it all in
such a tight space
had he ever measured it flaccid
calculated his place in the geography and history of dicks.
Win. Place. Show. Stories about horses.
It’s a miracle that any guy wants to wear
tight jeans — all that bundled sex — like a locked closet
full of bolts of French lace.
Every day I catch myself staring at that spot
on a random guy walking by, so I look up or away
pretend to adjust my sleeve.
I wonder, too about how people do their sex lives —
the couple I had dinner with last night
who laughed at their dog humping mine.
Do they have mutual orgasms?
Does he come in her mouth?
Do they let the dogs watch?
What about my brother? Is he hung like our father?
Did he see Dad’s in the bathtub that morning
when we were all waiting for eggs to boil?
I don’t think penis every time I drive by a flag pole.
Sometimes I think vagina when I see a crack in the sidewalk.
It reminds me of myself.
I don’t want a dick of my own —
though it is a perfect combination of nerves and blood
and flesh — nothing more beautiful than a boner after a shower
in the morning
before that first pee
in the middle of my back
during the middle of the night
saying, Wake up, in its own wet language —
Penis, like a purple iris
in the hollow of the night,
a gift between
from you to me
the tantric messenger —
I follow the call of the cock,
a drowning woman primordial
loose and vining
a dark flower opening
whether jism flows or catches in a lump
solid, stately, splendid enough to be a church.