Nebraska Baked Alaska: Three Poems

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Now I wish I had gone all the way with Mary Allison

in the front seat of her mini-van in ’86.

Oh, haven’t you ever felt a woman leaning forward

inside herself, holding out her soul

like a flower to be picked?

Merely doing nothing in these situations

can be an act of athletic dimensions,

like keeping your mouth shut in an argument,

or not flinching when the bull rushes past,

which in this case would be, I guess, the wild Hereford of desire

charging past

the Matador of sexual opportunity.

Well, she didn’t need my fingerprints all over her.

Having just escaped from her Frankenstein first husband

she was naturally looking for somebody just like him.

Still, she was like a soft crust, it would have

felt so good to push my finger through, to the soft center,

and to lick the finger after.

I remember her mouth so clearly.