by Mercy Bona
My love, try to understand
I’m not up to the Talking Teeth tonight
not even up for the bird dunking its beak in the H2O
no, not even the Slinky, but you’re close
Yes, Colorforms, ANNETTE & FRANKIE GO TO THE BEACH
with your thighs as the board.
(I hate sex poems, Virginia,
they remind me of plastic vomit)
I love to watch you think about what
to do next, with your hand on your forehead
then you slip your scorched fingers beneath my shirt.
where’s the Aqua Lung
and the Trick Chicken
for that matter, the Exploding Kiss, where’s
the Exploding Kiss these days?
no one believes in tradition anymore.
these days, like all the rest,
your return address is a lot like my clutch
like all the rest
Mercy Bona resideds in Brooklyn. (Spring 1975)