This week's prompt for Poetry Thursday was to write about sex. That's a topic that doesn't usually make its way into my poetry. Not that I don't enjoy reading well-written poetry that includes sex, I just don't write about it. To tell the truth, I think I am far more at ease inside my head than in my body.
Still, I have one poem that I wrote recently that does mention sex. I'm not sure that it is actually about sex, but it does mention it. Now, it's a bit offbeat, and I don't usually like explanations of poetry. If I go to a reading, and someone feels obliged to give a long explanation of their poem, I tend to find myself thinking "Enough already! Just read the damn thing." There is a reference in this poem that you might remember if you have been reading my blog for a while. Otherwise, I am going to let it stand without explanation at first, and I will add some background to the comments in a day or so.
On Not Being Charles Lindbergh
Snow on the ground
we are lying in bed
cold outlines the curves of our thighs
making love with socks on
Charles Nunsegger and Francois Coli
missing over the Atlantic
with ten days’ supply
of caviar and bananas.
By the way, all writing on this blog is copyright to me. One of these days I will put a note in the sidebar.