Two Poems

Dirty

As wives across America settle into rerun mode. As their frequent-flyer              husbands deplane in a podunk town—                            pockets full of skin-flick brass. Hot              for dick and liking it too—world-class poolside abs keeping me from Paul              Celan—the ashen hair of Shulamite                            no match for hunky jizz. The pathos              of my being here probing a stranger’s ass—crack-stench left on a wedding              band that won’t come off with soap. Doom Queens My student who said he felt so “Sylvia Plath” (winding-up on a stretcher heading towards the morgue) was in my office just hours before with his paper in my lap, and I wanted him to drop the course right there instead of my getting stoned on his weed, laughing aloud about Anne Sexton sunk deep into her drink, having been denied her Guggie once again—

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