This
might
be a
little
awkward
to write about.
But.
Whenever I see the weather-woman
on the morning news, I think of what
downtown New Orleans might look like
after the sun’s gone down on a summer
Saturday night, the dark sky
and the heavy humidity
accentuating the glow of the streetlights.
The street would be filled
with people. Most of them would
be dancing or singing or talking
in a group above the music
that comes from all sorts of sources.
The guys would be wearing
loose shirts with buttons
and the girls would be wearing
dresses.
The colour of the dresses would catch
the colours
of the night and it would all blend into
beautiful memories.
Sweat and liquor
would stifle the air in the
dark heat.
I’d be out of place. My jeans would
feel uncomfortable and my t-shirt would
be showing the large, drenched spots under
my armpits. I don’t like dancing.
But. Her frizzy hair would be
alive with electricity and her darker
skin would be shiny with sweat. I would
smell her B.O. and her doe eyes would
stare up, up, up into mine. I’d stare back
into her eyes. Her body would be pressed
warm against me and it wouldn’t be so
bad, the crowd and the noise and
the heat and other smells.
And that’s how thinking about the
weather-person on the news
gets me through the mornings.
With one of the
lead anchors on the news,
it’d be quite different.
With the lead anchor
there would be very little
skin showing.
With her, we’d walk
around Wascana Lake
on a Sunday afternoon
in January or February.
The lake would be white
and the trees would be white
and her cheeks would be flushed
from the wind and her eyes would
be bright from looking at
the pale, clear sky.
We’d be bundled up. We’d hold
hands or cross arms and the other
people on the path, runners or other
couples, they’d often glance at us
from a distance because it’s chilly
but we seem cozy and warm.
With the lead-anchor we
wouldn’t need to talk much
during our winter walks.
With the
live-on location
reporter,
we’d talk a lot.
With that reporter, we’d go skiing in the
winter and we’d go to some friend’s cabin
in the summer. We’d usually be in a group
of friends. We’d all do things together and
later on she’d catch me staring at her
from across the room and we’d share
a look and the others would roll their eyes.
Sometimes I think
about these women
and I think about
fucking.
When I tally up the time, though,
I’m surprised to find that I look at
women and I think relatively little
about sex.
Maybe it’s because I’m gay.
Or.
Maybe it’s because sex is work.
Sex gets stale.
Love gets stale.
Even with Selena Gomez. What I’d do
with Selena is stay in a hotel room
with her the whole weekend. We’d be
naked all day eating cookies, ordering
room service and laughing at bad movies.
We’d cuddle and bath together but we’d
be too lazy and too content with one
another to go through the effort
of getting each other off.
Same with Emilia Clarke. We wouldn’t
fuck all day. With her we’d go outside
and do things. We’d go see operas or
community theatre. We’d see a Pats game
or a Rider game. We’d go on hikes,
to the mall, to the park. We’d people-watch
and we’d sit where people couldn’t
watch her too much.
Is this offensive?
Is this the
wrong way to
refer to women
in poetry?
In my thinking?
Could be.
But I wonder if this isn’t how
most men come to think
of women once they become
secure with their own
sexuality.
When I was a teen it was
different: everything was fresh
with a warm, soft promise and
anything like a general greeting
or chanced eye-contact, for all I knew,
could lead into everything more
than that.
But now I’m fat
and inflexible.
It’s early in the morning
and thinking of tits makes
me a little annoyed. They are
symbols for All That
I Can’t Touch.
But day-dreaming
of a night
in New Orleans with the
weather-woman?
Or walking around Wascana
Lake with the news-anchor?
That kind of day-dream
comforts me.
And comfort, not lust
or love, is what get me
through these kind of
mornings.
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