Vagina poem

 

‘twas the last century when I visited one of my dearest friends, Alisha.  Her mother had redecorated.  Though this was long ago in the 1900s, in my mind’s eye, I recall a baroque style with fringes, tassels and tapestry prints; the colors were pinks, mauves, soft burgundys and creams.  The glass lamps were pale pink hues and there was a chaise lounge.  Ooo la la, Paree!  I wanted to stay there forever.  The room had enveloped me.

I went home and wrote a poem about it, a very bad poem (well maybe not that bad).  Another dear friend, Chickie La Loca gave me the incentive to dig it out from a dusty old box of files.  Here it is:

Your room looks like the inside of a vagina

Mauves so warm you

could slip inside an

enveloping leisure

under an overhead

soft tone lamp shaped

like a shell.

Stretch out on the cream

chaise lounge

and breath in a deep

breath so deep;

let it out when

you feel like it,

in a burgundy mist chair…