Poem 70 Revised

Astrophysics 101
The universe would turn this way and that in front of the bedroom mirror and sigh.
I’m expanding.
With her graviton fingers she would pluck at her dimpling rippling thighs.
To rearrange the molecules, planets and moons, to satisfy her vanity.
But they would return, settling in their most comfortable orbits,
And with such desperate dismay would throw down her asteroid fists and return to bed.
Her Lover, stirred from the sleep of their latest intimacy,
Would curl up against the cool touch of her vacuum skin and call to her in pillow whispers.
No, she would roll window side, wrapped in linen, and complain of
her belly and arms spilling out from the navy negligee.
So dark and deep one could be lost forever in the navel, the soft slope of her creasing elbows.
You’re Beautiful he would say, with his words hinging on the door
Of possibility. Knowing her secrets depends on negotiating these bedroom laws.
Speak sweetly, he knows she’s a woman after all…
I’m Fat
But you’re not. You’re just growing broader, more complex
Reaching the far corners of cognition.
An orgasm of potential, you claw the very walls of my being with hope
Of capturing you with symbols and numbers
You don’t know me.
But I must, and if you trust me, I’ll write lyrical equations of your mathematic miracles,
Count the satellites and sunspots, look this blemish a comet, this dimple an imploding star.
This wrinkle the rings of Saturn, please let me touch your soul.

Poem 70

The Universe would turn this way and that in front of the floor to ceiling bathroom mirror and sigh.
I’m expanding.
With a pork roll finger or two she would puck at her dimpling rippling thighs
and rearranges the molecules, planets and stars, to satisfy her vanity.
But they would return, the orbit fixed to her most desperate dismay,
and with such a realization she would throw down her wrecking-ball fists and return to bed.
Her Lover, stirred from the sleep of their latest intimacy,
would curl up against the cool touch of her vast skin and call to her in the voice so dear
to their pillow talk about how she is his everything.
At this she would roll window side in their sheets and complain
as her belly and arms spilled out from the navy negligee she bought
to cover her ever stretching belly button.
So dark and deep one could get lost forever in her armpits or the sloping crinkle mid thigh.
You’re beautiful, he would say to her, with his tone hinging on a door,
the possibility of knowing her secrets dependent on his negotiation of these bedroom laws.
Speek sweetly, he reminds himself, she’s a woman after all.
I’m fat.
But you’re not. You’re just getting bigger, more complicated,
you’re reaching the far corners of everything I could not imagine,
like an orgasm of potential, you claw the very walls of my being with the hope
of writing you down with symbols and numbers.
You don’t know me.
But I have to, and if you let me I will, and I’ll write poetic mathematic equations,
count the planets and spheres. Look this dry patch of asterouds, this pimple an imploding star.
This kankle the rings around Saturn, please let me touch your bones.
–ECW