Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

Layman’s Psychiatry

Don't tell me you want to knowhow a woman's body feels. A woman won't tell you, Doktor Prime, because her body gave in and laydown a long while ago, sighed, all right if you must. And the man who felt need knot his prick, convulsed into her,a meek dog-cry finally, when finished, turned overto his side, forgetful and limp. If you wish to discuss sex,I'll admit I coveted trees.I squatted over fires and tried to stop them with my piss, to spite Herr Freud with trickles of that and feces and blood, all of my textures, like childhood mudcake. Every womanfeels this personal responsibility, and the truth isn't compact.Rain also pretends as it comes, in shudders. I see what you mean by fuckingeveryone just to finish it off,because the mind, if startled, will rush down the spine and begthe limbs to flail in spite of no electricity. I know my power, Prime, what you call Holland Tunnel, chokes you even now as we speakin this dark, closing donut shop. I know why you reach across the table

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Vespers

By Marilyn Nelson Waniek

Don't tell me you want to knowhow a woman's body feels. A woman won't tell you, Doktor Prime, because her body gave in and laydown a long while ago, sighed, […]

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