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

wonder how 

he stuffed it all in 

such a tight space

had he ever measured it flaccid 

or erect

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 

or before

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

dick moving 

solid, stately, splendid enough to be a church. 

The Tiny Little Thief

The Tiny Little Thief

 To Fuck or Not to Fuck: Navigating Sex with Bipolar Depression and PTSD

To Fuck or Not to Fuck: Navigating Sex with Bipolar Depression and PTSD