Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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Wynona almost never thinks of sex,
and not because she isn’t having any.
She’s fine. If sex was at her fingertips
just itching to be had, she wouldn’t tell
herself you ought to keep your eye on that
at least. Don’t get her wrong, she’s been swept up
in lust; she’s fared some hot and heavy romps,
but none that ever added up to much
more than an ah or uh and then a lot
of say what? Thanks for asking, though. She’s fine.
Her mind is occupied. She does Sudoku.
Meditates. She has the internet
and TV Guide and doesn’t think of sex.
Not last week, not this morning, certainly
not right this second when the camera cuts
to the Weatherman, his Chiclet teeth agleam,
who says you better throw a blanket on
those roses, we’re expecting record lows;
not even when he reaches out to read
the map his hand invents, though she’ll admit
he makes her wish she was a continent.  

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