Poetry (nonmonetized)
More or Less Everywhere
a poem of unexpected geography
“Woman has sex organs more or less everywhere. She finds pleasure almost anywhere… the geography of her pleasure is far more diversified, more multiple in its differences, more complex, more subtle, than is commonly imagined.” [1]
Oh baby, touch me there!
Slide your fingers into my
armpit,
press your tongue against my
jawbone,
swirl it slowly around my
big toe,
bury your face between my
shoulder blades,
grab me hard by the
ankle,
slip a finger behind
my knee,
kiss me passionately on the
forehead,
with a palm pressed firmly against my
spine,
massage deftly my swollen
calves,
nibble at my throbbing
wrist,
dip your nose into my
clavicle,
and inhale me, all of me,
more or less everywhere.
Yes, love, take me now
to the Botanical Garden
hold me tightly
by the hand,
and lean in slowly
to smell a blossom,
tell me all about
taxonomy
and give me the long, hard
Latin names
and all the dirty details
about rabbits
and how they ended up
more or less everywhere.
Ooh, honey, just like that!
Keep it straight, right there, and I’ll nail
this picture into place,
put your hand on my
hand to keep it still,
not too
hard
or we’ll wreck the drywall.
I love it when you’re handy, fixing
the pipe,
sewing a torn
pillowcase,
grabbing my ass on the
sidewalk
on the way home from the
grocery store,
the pub,
the movies, and
more or less everywhere.
Mm darling, don’t stop
texting me good morning when I’m away,
kissing me
on the forehead,
grabbing me by the
ankle,
bringing me pieces of
cheese,
surprising me after a long day with
tacos,
leaving me hot
cups of tea,
listening to me read
a poem,
more or less everywhere.
Oh baby, touch me anywhere!
Pet me, squeeze me, kiss me, love me!
Slide your hands up my long
arms,
cup my pointy
elbows,
run your fingertips over my
crooked nose,
individually kiss every brown
freckle,
and I’ll connect yours into constellations with
Sharpie.
Love me in Dublin,
kiss me in Paris,
hold me in Lisbon,
call me in Zurich,
do me in New York,
marry me in Niagara Falls!
Or more or less anywhere.
[1] Irigaray, Luce. “This Sex Which is Not One (Ce sex qui n’en est plus un).” Trans. Clausia Reeder. New French Feminisms: An Anthology. Ed. Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron. Schocken, 1981: 99–106.
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