For further reference: I go to love
like a fire engine to a three-alarm, flashing
and spinning, yelling across town. Nothing
to be afraid of: the ceiling falling, windows
concave, doors bowed and stiff. My body
parts fall to, like I was made of the heat.
Everyone watches, chest-clutching, pointing.
Inhalation will surely be the cause of my death.
Urban myth says an aging vagina once
well-used will shrink from lack of exercise.
I would think, instead, like the collar of a sweater,
stretched, gaping. Or a fish out of water,
grasping for purchase. A soft pop every time
you check to see whether or not it is dead.
I want a song to be written about me: black
pearls, sulfur, bronze-plated silver. It should
have a verse about blood-soaked hands,
a chorus that is a shout of AAAAAHHHHH!
[Sing it with me: AAAAAHHHHH!]
It won’t be a song where someone stares into
lit windows from the end of a driveway on the last note.
Copyright © 2022 by C. Prudence Arceneaux. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 29, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.