Sexy Is the Least Interesting
thing I do, but it’s the thing I’ve done the most,
and now that I can glide through a supermarket
without a stock boy’s notice, now that I am
indistinguishable from the day-olds and the must-gos
and the bend of my waist above the cheese bin
brings not a one to their knees—I must confess, Allen G,
that the stacked peaches are more fuzz for me than flesh
these days, the eggplants less turgid, swelling gleam
than a problem of use. In the dream of the produce aisle,
all was emoji. The carts slid inside the other carts
without a hitch. The bins held their contents tightly.
All was desire and surplus—once I touched
a cellophaned cube of meat and felt it gently give
beneath the pressure. I was a woman who left a mark.
I lived dangerously. Now the store detective marks me
as yet another white, suburban mother. My God, Allen,
yesterday I shoplifted a turkey and no one noticed. I wish I could
close my eyes and see you on aisle C17 once more—
Speak to me again of out-of-season
asparagus—the girth of them—I want to feel
the parsnips thick beneath my hand, I want to bite
the sliced orange sample and let the juice drip, and see
another person’s eyes gaze hungrily.
Allen, I have been considering the cost of things
and ideas. Allen, my queer shoulder is bared
in an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.
Above the lettuce, false lightning
and simulated thunder. Tinny Gene Kelly
sings out about rain and joy from across the century,
and the mist that sprays does not spray for me.
