ARS POETICA

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent
                                                            Czeslaw Milosz

Out of the dark between your mother’s legs
Out of the smell your father left
Out of a phrase that follows you for days—
poems are made—

Some stab at the back of your brain like a woodpecker
Some meander like coyote over the yellow hills
Some take their clothes off, real slow— 

            unbuttoning her blouse
            shifting her hips
            unleashing the swing of her breasts…

But when she starts doing the hootchy–kootchy—
She’s no poem of yours!

            (Your poems move only to the music of Erik Satie
            They are elegant and spare
            Simple and full of grace…)

She’s in your face— 

            I’m no sleeping princess, no morbid maiden in a tower—
            I’m your dirty dancer, your old lech peering up ladies’ skirts
           through bedroom curtains, deep into your parents’ faces
                                                                                                while they were making
                                                                                                                               you—

© Copyright, 2012, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky.
All rights reserved.