The Ex-Nun and the Gay Poet
They talked about meditation
and extra-sensory perception
as her eyes kept straying
to the black hair on his chest
where his shirt was open
and he talked of his new poems
as his eyes kept straying
to the slit in her crotch
where her slacks were tight.
They smoked Lebanese hash,
her first turn-on,
and she slumped a little
and said, "Nothing is happening,"
and he laughed, watching her
and she said, "I feel as if our bodies
are moving towards each other
like 2 sticks in a bathtub
of their own volition,"
and he reached over
cradling her neck in his arm
and said, "They are,"
and didn't wait
to remove his pants.
That night they drifted
in a twilight zone
with Adam and Eve
fish and amoeba
sperm and egg.
She spoke of the convent in Boston
where the nuns were in love
with the body of Christ
spreadeagled on the crucifix
and very naked.
The nuns did strange things
as they passed each other
silently in the hall
like flicking the habit
against each other's breasts
which made them horny
and quite crazy.
So she dropped the habit
and went in search of a real man.
She worked at the US Army Base
in Libya, but had troubled dreams
of the Boston Strangler
and woke up screaming
because she dreamed of a man
under the bed.
One night he was in the bed
but it wasn't the Strangler,
it was a G.I. Then a cameldriver.
Then a string of cameldrivers.
Then a camel. Or was it a dream?
She felt the need of something
"more spiritual"
and having read Lawrence Durrell
she fled to Athens to find herself
and drowned her dreams in bottles of ouzo
with male hustlers in tourist tavernas.
But the Greeks had nothing
to say except "I love you,
50 drachmas please!"
They got money from other men
for services rendered
and gave it to her
for services rendered.
It wasn't very spiritual.
She was losing her mind
and her looks trying
to find a way of giving and receiving
that wasn't physical.
It looked like curtains
for the ex-nun from Boston.
And then it happened.
"I met you," she said,
"I hit the jackpot."
She found her bliss
with a Gay American poet
from Brooklyn.
Porto Santo Stefano, Summer, 1970
by Harold Norse
Aucun commentaire:
Publier un commentaire