we spent the night at nomi and jamie's quiteclean, quitewhite apartment. i withdrew cunt from my bag and a discussion ensued about how good exactly women need to feel about that particular region of our anatomi. i thought about but didn't recite the poem i wrote in cape cod on the subject (funny how certain themes keep popping up sometimes):
The Other Womantoday i brazenly decided to have my way with 104 sheets of paper. a hardcopy version of true love waits now sits on my bed. i'll take it to kinko's i guess to get all them pages affixed. now if only i knew the step after that.
alone of all of us,
she looked at her other face in the mirror.
she examined her other mouth
while we were content to marvel at arm's length
what went in and came out
of ours.
before we knew of another eve -
not apple-eve, but the eve who laid
a cross-section of her apple out
for the world to examine, and felt no shame - she
alone of all of us
could say Vagina and not turn the color of one.
somehow we've leapt ahead of her
Liberated in college, acquainted with women
like the other-eve - not that we should be
ashamed of the first one, who had no mirrors, but
in biting into that apple discovered introspection -
we have developed relationships with our other faces
We have reached inside ourselves and shaken hands
Her acquaintance remains professional, detached
One face communes with the other
without (the pleasure of) electronic translation.
(she who deserves it most)
we share. we try to. we're shy
and really we know that she, in whom both eves
reside, knows better than we do, still - and when
like children all my faces can do
is make faces at each other, i envy hers. (summer 2002)
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