But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement

Allison Heim

It’s such a shame we’ve started already,
our stains spreading;
we girls are flustered between
breaking it open and keeping it safe.
Oh, so traditional! the men say,
the virgin riding sissy with the slut, together
infected from the same motorcycle seat,
or so we heard.
Spread it open:
that leads to a whole salad of odors,
inflammations and rejections.
How do we handle it?
Men unfold magazines and we must keep clean
or nice and dirty on a Sunday
in exchange for protection,
and we wonder,
What is it about bicycle seats?
Are they really that different?
Well, legend has it that
God made the cootie catcher
a feminine mystique, an ecosystem
to rival the Garden of Eden,
chock full of minerals, bacteria and life-giving juices
so beware what goes in there, God admonished.
Nothing foreign, edible, artificial or exotic,
but let men fixate and set their watches by it,
monitor the action after dark, especially
reproduction and heartbreak.
Increase the pain tenfold and God meant it.

Note: Title taken from “Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop”
by William Butler Yeats

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