Pussy is not a good word. No one should use it. Instead it should be kept like
a prisoner in the mind, carefully chained and gagged. But I, for reasons
inexplicable, am powerless to resist it. I must warn you that every time I
give a poetry reading, if I allow the pussy to make an appearance (and I
always do), it's bad news. The instant the pussy arrives at the reading, one
man, always one, walks out. Which, I have to confess, pleases me just a bit.
Perhaps a bit of pleasing is a good thing, maybe better than too much. Like
salt, I like it in small doses. A single tear, not a deluge. And that's
exactly how it is when one man leaves. Of course, he doesn't go right away. I
always start out with something sweet and innocent, maybe a poem or two about
childhood or bees. But he's not fooled. He's waiting. He knows it's coming.
And so do I. The pussy's debut. After which he stands up abruptly, scraping
his chair, rustling his papers. He's not satisfied until everyone turns and
stares. He meets my gaze with a hostile glare. And then I can't help myself.
I announce it again with utter composure, no smile, no apology, the single
word, pussy, to accompany him to the door. Sometimes I think, I could be
saying pride or prudence or pectorals. I could be saying pansies or posses of
palominos. Or platefuls of Patsy's pitless pink peaches. But pussy is
simpler, like a petal in the wind. So solitary too. And so many thoughts
follow it . . . his and mine, and sometimes yours. Pussy. Pretty, isn't it?
It's not like a swear word, and it has no harsh gutturals and fricatives. And
afterwards, I look out and feel suddenly, almost happy, maybe as happy as a
prairie dog peeking out of its hole on a sunny morning in April or June after a
long, dark sleep . . . or as happy as a wasp atop a warm, wet plum, or a frog in a
tree after the monsoons. It's true. And wonderful really. To think what
could happen when one enunciates a single word of power. And afterwards,
always, when the door closes, and my departing man is gone, leaving us behind
with the pussy, a wind blows in. Precious wind. I feel so much better then.
I sigh with relief. I swear the pussy does too. If it could, it would laugh a
little. It might even cheer. But I try not to. I wouldn't want to be rude.
