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Choices: Neruda or Rilke
by Jane Roop

Come in slowly my sweet.
While you were away I read Neruda.

Encouraged by his exaltations
I patted white powder on my breasts,
bought blue-ocean contacts,
re-planted the bald spot on my mount.

But

no goblet breasts developed,
no surge of tidal passion emerged,
my bush remains modest.

I converted to ordinaire,
primal woman, ordinaire,
with hairy legs and armpits.

This female seeks safe place to sleep,
good food. Has efficient digestion,
and follow through.
Welcomes hugs, a joke.
Solitude.

I sacked Neruda, towed him
to the used book store.

I stocked up on Rilke, a man of sense,
who knows a flash of anger yields years of grief,
a man of generosity, who believes love is two solitudes
protecting each other.

Yes, my dear, sweet love,
come in slowly.

Slowly, come.
I've rearranged the furniture.

 

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