Who’s Fucking Who?: A Revision

In trying to be wild, to really
open up, it occurs to me
that the poem in praise
of the sex I once had
with my ex (and it was always, all
the time, sometimes four times

in a day, and usually twice— even after
the baby came, we found time to take
absurd, extreme pleasure
in the weird diametrics of our bodies—

he so big, I so small, the heaviness of it
all, all the time, the collapse,

sometimes all he needed
was to slap his thick cock
against my round ass, poised, almost
and waiting in the air for the Big Moment

and I would shake with want, with lack

and even now, with the distance, the time, it’s almost enough
to make me want it back
or at least to drop this pen

and slide two fingers deep inside myself
and come. It’s almost nothing.) It occurs to me
that poem I wrote years ago
in praise of our fucking

was packed tight with lies
barely worth the time it took to say them,
to unpack them— deconstruct
the form of what we looked like
to others. To ourselves.

To delve into the imagined threeways
I had each time he pushed his tongue
against my clit, recall

the time he told me
how his ex-wife plucked a red-head— like
from thin and sexy air!— for the two of them to share.
That redhead. She haunts my bed. Her perfect tits,
her milky skin. His cock goes in
and out. She moans. I watch. Phone it in.
Can someone tell me, please,
where she ends? Where I begin?

Imagine a poem bold enough
to hold us all, to figure which is her, which
is him, bathed in the dim light
of truth, that lovers use to hide
their bodies’ lines? Their bodies lie. I cry out.

I try and try and this is still about
that dimming. That cave. Once, I gave
a person every single thing—

Take it, I said, Take it all, I sang,

Here is every song I ever wrote, take them, take
each slatted, black-lined measure, take their polka-
dotted notes, take their feathered fan-tails hanging
off their backs like half-shrugged ladies’
coats, they are rushing toward their double-barred
exhale, a final curtain call, I gave you this, I gave you
that, my heart, my heart, that chump, you took it all

and fled, and still, this poem praises
you, your body in my body, your body in my bed.

 

 

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About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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2 Responses to Who’s Fucking Who?: A Revision

  1. jessica says:

    hottness and dope

  2. Will Roby says:

    Amazing. One of the strongest drafts of yours I’ve read in months. I said that same thing about another recent poem … one you posted here. I’ll have to go back and look. But Em …

    “Here is every song I ever wrote, take them, take
    each slatted, black-lined measure, take their polka-
    dotted notes, take their feathered fan-tails hanging
    off their backs like half-shrugged ladies’
    coats, they are rushing toward their double-barred
    exhale, a final curtain call, I gave you this, I gave you
    that, my heart, my heart, that chump, you took it all ”

    Are you kidding me? This is incredible! It needs a home. You need to be paid to publish this. This is canonical material for you. In a book. Your book. “Something; and Then We Recover.” 🙂

    Thanks for sharing.

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