[Because this ghazal I wrote almost seven years ago came up twice during conversations in the last week.]
How will you hear these lines, sings a titter in my cunt,
If I fashion a poem of the jitters in my cunt?
It was late when I discovered the shape of roundness
(Imagined in my palm) stirred a glitter in my cunt.
Loving you is treacherous -- an hour ago sweetness,
Unspoken hostilities are now bitter in my cunt.
The sounds I taught to remember myself to scream
Are yet one quarter the primal Schwitters in my cunt.
I sell condoms to the unversed, teach them safer sex.
Yet there have been times I willed your litter in my cunt.
She often singes innocents with her hotheaded glare
That for oglers intends the hitter in my cunt.
My sheer cunt, still, is enough to give you pleasure.
You practiced -- to worship, to play the zither in my cunt.
Eve reclaimed the vagina, but the unfinished tales
Of good girls to come still clatter-clitter in my cunt.
Slowly discover rules for yourself, Monica.
Cheer's vitalest, let not dolor fritter in your cunt.