The Ecphorizer
| The Mind/Body Problem |
| Margot Treitel |
Issue #37 (September 1984)
| Listen, if you still want me take me now. I've grown plainer with the years but wiser, down to bone. My body's simple, sensual, skilled, has no opinions. I don't need to be talked to, reassured, brought gifts. |
My mind's sunk into cliches, silence, facts. It doesn't climb or delve or pry, but the body does. Better to love me now. Everything I say surprises me and I never say the same thing twice.  |
More Articles by Margot Treitel
Contributor Profile
Margot Treitel
Margot Treitel has published her poetry in Chicago Review, Prairie Schooner, College English, Hollins Critic, and the Literary Review and a host of other magazines. She has also taught English in West Africa.
| To Her Whom I'd Like to Know Infinitely Better |
| Robert A. Willis |
Issue #37 (September 1984)
Except for breasts,
(Pillows for the avid climber,
steep and softly warm, eager
to my hungry chest)
Except for eyes
(low-banked embers down in deep)
Soft hips, too wide for her own taste,
not too wide for mine (Have I felt her hips?)
I have felt her lips, foretastes of honey;
I have felt her cinnamon mouth cooly burn away
my frontal lobes -
and her arms about me,
not hungry arms, but cruelly loose,
uncaring in charity, in uninterested caring.
Except for these and -
dresses, bell-like voice and
tresses,
corn silken western clouds of hair
in blinding singing light -
Except for these -
I don't really know she's not a boy.
And I want, I want, I want
to make her wet and hot, and hot
and prove she's not a boy,
oh not!
Not!
Not!
(Pillows for the avid climber,
steep and softly warm, eager
to my hungry chest)
Except for eyes
(low-banked embers down in deep)
Soft hips, too wide for her own taste,
not too wide for mine (Have I felt her hips?)
I have felt her lips, foretastes of honey;
I have felt her cinnamon mouth cooly burn away
my frontal lobes -
and her arms about me,
not hungry arms, but cruelly loose,
uncaring in charity, in uninterested caring.
Except for these and -
dresses, bell-like voice and
tresses,
corn silken western clouds of hair
in blinding singing light -
Except for these -
I don't really know she's not a boy.
And I want, I want, I want
to make her wet and hot, and hot
and prove she's not a boy,
oh not!
Not!
Not!
More Articles by Robert A. Willis
Contributor Profile
Margot Treitel
Margot Treitel has published her poetry in Chicago Review, Prairie Schooner, College English, Hollins Critic, and the Literary Review and a host of other magazines. She has also taught English in West Africa.