First Poetry Slam
Here I am--the delicate, personal poet--
sure it isn't for me,
a poetry slam-a fatal contradiction.Persuaded by this venue,
a staid New England library,
I've come, fearing
a hyperbole of poets
riding torrents of words
into consummation.
Will I miss the dulcet tones
of poetic intoning, the safety
of a proper poetry reading?but Kara succulently mouths
"Rebecca's Words", obscenities
concealed by good girl Rebecca
until filled with passion's fruits,
they crept to Kara's lips, exploded
from her pretty rosebud mouth.Kara and Rebecca warm me,
skeptical Yankee with my mouth
set firm, now thawing
and smiling as Laurel,
cat-like, purrs
her body's words
into her story of
sex, sin, and salvation.Then, like fireworks sending flowers
into a night sky,
Jay's suddenly on stage
dazzling us, talking us
into nakedness.
He wants to be naked, he tells us,
I want him to stay clothed.
But he strips me down,
line by line,
until I come away, satisfied
as I recall
my first honey-coated kiss
on a warm bed long ago.
Portsmouth
2001
