-stephanie pope
She is a gracious spirit and
there is this game to play again, the one where
man's monkey makes me mad, though worn
like an aegis around my breast and torn around my
civil-eyed reckoning with such feminess expressed
in monkey-shine.

She is a gracious spirit and i'm troubled and we are
both laughing madly while this
radically changing landscape in which
we find ourselves catches us in-between the sudden
hyper-vigilance of over-active lightness
(it played through lunch today)
somehow there are
too many heavy lights here in this vale and
not enough shades
all my not so loved female parts are too exposed
and there are even fewer ways
to make such public nudity okay
(thank goddesses for laughter...thank you ladies!)
because of you i soften into curvy looks that
slur my words and let the wild monkey shift my shape
how shall she and i
continue to endure it
when we
find ourselves
dragging the bits
behind ourselves
out in front of things abject
called monkey parts

and we
find ourselves
still gracious in the spirit of long yellow days
ripening ahead behind banana monkey's smile
smiles perfect in baring white fangs the brunt
this odd professional attitude picks green and
delivers in its say of things
(which it peels from the bottom)
things said behind their too overripened grin
and left here like debris left awkward in my breast the
harsh yellow day dims blue and i, too
always glad for her...like i have been, each of you

My body ecologies (like hers) seem
marginalized just now in favor of
surgically removed and sterile solutions that
build roads through mountains (labeled progress)
am i grateful for progressions, yes and no
in my red mind I live small and humble
in my blue heart spirit soars
a fierce way sores too and
this way passes through my passage now.

Like her i am aged and graced and scarred
yet in utter stillness I am left
to consider myself so remarkably hued
across these times in my own remarks
and, too, she brings me solace touches me
beyond these bestial reflections of gorgoned chimps
that brand me low and stoke my burn
for she is more kind in her killings and these
overreach me to teach me there are
hints of violence in male desires
how shall i wear on fire in trees these roots my
meta phorous karpophorein stance askance
(unlike the asparagus fern at lunch today)
challenges that proud man's standing
among his produce
at the grocers and likewise
the one whose produce stand
hangs violently from violet office walls
what are these hang-ups green in happenstance
banana smiling and somehow freed in me
although there were no free samples
when it came to professional flowers and fruits
some men offer only vegetal spears
(or were they scalpels, i'm not sure)
why is asparagus greedily gardened
so braggedly on a public man's private wall
hanging like his degree
a doctorate in juvenile monkey business.

And, what do such men really know about such p/arts
not at all like you ladies know passing through me
in my passing through her
you each offer every day like she your breast to me
telling me to do likewise with my arts;
these words, those parts
swell me now with red grease the
ancient sapling sorrows fierce of fire
lashed to the tales of tempestuous desires 
i will endure and honor such greed without fear
as they pass through me and while they do
she will make me them and
like Hanuman passing we will pass
this mountain crest
together in ancientness the test
that will fulfill a living self in mine
and will call me into harmony again
a lady of the wild.

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