Fresh Codfish
for T.S.

i.
in nearly every poem
she conducts us to her bareness
to the truth of her being
as if to ask us
are you ready for this
can you handle it

the door knob to turn
to get into her bedroom
where nightly, she sleeps naked

we must go on tiptoe
if we wish to join her
across her bedroom’s wooden floor

awake or asleep,
she’s usually dreaming

ii.
what buttons to make
a woman accept a man
wanting to come in her

with a finger, depressing device
to activate buzzer or bell
beside her front door

WELCOME mat to wipe his feet off
if admitted

this door though are her thighs
which, if she decides
if unable to resist, she spreads wide
lets Dick enter Jane

a chain reaction follows
the tumbling of lock parts
of locked parts

a man allowed to enter a woman’s heart
cause her blood to back up
and her soul to backfire
her pistons to fire

iii.
weight of a woman’s hips to carry
must help her with her load
up and down the road
ups and downs to undergo
once you’ve gone with her
once you’ve raised her skirt
like an umbrella
or gotten under
like a tent in bad weather

what’s light as well as what’s a load
is hers and yours to lift, to carry

as difficult to lift at times
as it is for jet or spaceship
to lift off with overload

iv.
she’s such a little child,
she’s been taken out too far
into such deep waters
where waves are rough
and whatever’s on it, is pitched,
tossed

out too deep for her age
tried too hard, too rough already

she walks with her chest up,
with her breasts protruding

as if she had not fallen hard
between too many waves

as if she had not broken something
an axel, over roads with holes
too deep and too many

hole discovered, made wide
like the girl with her, her size,
she should be whole still

v.
she’s happy with herself,
in her skin, in the clothes
she’s chosen to wear this evening,
this night, this morning

dark, tight, blue jeans
expensive, tight top
with arms and much of the top
of her body bare

her belt is lemon-colored
matches the inner shirt
of her undershirts

white slippers she wears
are like shoes for ballet
I know she’s never taken classes

she dances as she enters
steps she’d have learned in clubs

she passes along my street
constantly, like a tomboy

with a boyfriend tonight
assumes she is, seems to be, female

we all have roles to play
in this town, in these times
in this life


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
[between 11:48 p.m. 29.09.07
and 1:15 a.m. 30.09.07]