Like sex

poetry is a violent activity,

words

straining to assume the positions of cows, crabs,

and bamboo clefts,

opening their pungent juices, raising

their feet,

rubbing their hips in high or low rhythm,

accenting

the peaks and closures of each line.

The poet is versed

in the sixty-four arts of love and performs the textual act,

feeling

the cunning jab of inspiration prod his loins.

Squeezing

the figures closely to his lips, scanning them tenderly,

pupils dilated with lust,

he yokes them in the image of the serpent’s clasp.

And Vatsayana says

that in the lunge of creation one often strikes

the loved one

with the back of the hand in the space between the breasts,

adding to this

the sounds of doves, green pigeons, or a bee

first slowly,

then harder and faster in measure with each beat

like a horse

which, having attained the fifth degree of speed, continues

its mad lilt

with no concern for ditches, stumps, or holes.

So is the poet

maddened in his sweat, pursuing bliss and fury regardless

of the cost,

murmuring soft tropes of suffering, occasionally crying out,

Oh, Mother!

Originally published July 2009