Poem Beginning With A Line By Sharon Olds

Marsha Burtis

Sometimes I think I know nothing about sex.
For four years I test him - hell, I seduced him
Using every one of my waning wiles,
Stuffed into black bras, diaphanous,
Paper thin, for Christsake, I wore
A thong shoved up the crack of my ass
In hopes of raising his consciousness,
To no avail, I might add, as these efforts
Fell like words from mute lips on deaf ears.
I've always been amused by the clutter
Of that office, the mystical melange of
Dried, no, dead flowers, in jelly jars,
Literature books piled on the floor,
A torn cardboard box of student
Journals he reads, grades, then never returns.
I watched as he graded papers,
Sitting close by - silent as a black widow
Running stockinged feet up a thick, sinewy
Levi-clad thigh until I found the vee, the detour,
Line of demarcation, where I was focused
All along - my telescopic lens intent,
But he kept grading with that phallic red pen
Flicking me off like an annoyance or a fly
On his nose - sniffing the air redolent
With Estee Lauder, shrugging football
Shoulders, shaking his head in that
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you"
way he had.  Today he called.  I told him
I made cabbage soup, his voice gets thick
And I stir his excitement along with
The rich rosy broth of sweet and sour
Stuff, like us.  The phone is alive
With his voice, electric buzzing
Through my ears like impending
Orgasms, and I wish he'd ask me
"What are you wearing now?"
Wish he cared, wanted to know
"Do you have panties on?"
He growls throatily, instead,
Inquiring about texture and aroma
Telling me he loves…
My soup,
He loves - my soup
And I will get to see him
Tomorrow, if only
To feed his hunger.