Love Explained
Guy calls the doctor, says the wife’s
contractions are five minutes apart.
Doctor says, Is this her first child?
guy says, No, it’s her husband.
I promise to try to remember who
I am. Wife gets up on one elbow,
says, I wanted to get married.
It seemed a fulfillment of some
several things, a thing to be done.
Even the diamond ring was some
thing like a quest, a thing they
set you out to get and how insane
the quest is; how you have to turn
it every way before you can even
think to seek it; this metaphysical
refraining is in fact the quest. Who’d
have guessed? She sighs, I like
the predictability of two, I like
my pleasures fully expected,
when the expectation of them
grows patterned in its steady
surprise. I’ve got my sweet
and tumble pat. Here on earth,
I like to count upon a thing
like that. Thus explained
the woman in contractions
to her lover holding on
the telephone for the doctor
to recover from this strange
conversational turn. You say
you’re whom? It is a pleasure
to meet you. She rolls her
eyes, but he’d once asked her
Am I your first lover? and she’d
said, Could be. Your face looks
familiar. It’s the same type of
generative error. The grammar
of the spoken word will flip, let alone
the written, until something new is
in us, and in our conversation.
My Improv':
Sonograms of Love
Nurse says, Congratulations, Mrs. Haper! Today we can tell- would you like to see the sex?
Lady says, please don't be so excited, it's not mine... or his.
Nurse reply's, it's nothing to be ashamed of honey, many men can't produce aggressive sperm.
Wife says, that may be true doc', but my beach-ball plump stomach and your ultrasound says different, we aren't in love ya' know.
Relax. Sperm donors drink coffee too- smoke
a couple packs a day. Time release stimulants lock
in the hard erection long enough to stop
the scent of cherry-red licorice from sticking
breast to breast. He runs wind-chapped
fingers with a sober suavity through
mouse-oxidized hair, scissoring across
tangled twines, patches of passion left
over from an appointment with a phallic
cylindrical plastic, a worthy variety of pent-
house "get-the-job-done" mags, and him--
new Abraham of pregnancy, literally a father
among nations whose bird-beaked nose,
a dominant gene in all, is more of a trademark
than discovering the sex. So while Mrs. Well-
To-Do O.B.G.Y.N squirts another liquidy
cold load on the patient's stomach, rubbing it
over with a metal see-through lens, the wife
says, Beauty is a whore, I sometimes
say. I like money better. We call these sonograms
of love. Smiling she looks one last time
at the nurse, compliments her handwork, and before
lying her head back onto the cushioned
table she purses her flesh-pink plumps
and says, My husband and I are merely
voyeuristic creatures, this is our 23rd...
and our income. The nurse tips
off each latex into the metal can, washes
three times with rubbing alcohol, closes
the oak-wood door, and scurries to find her boss
telling him she quits. Oh! she pipes, you have a
pregnant patient in 302 waiting for her sonogram.
Sonograms of Love
Nurse says, Congratulations, Mrs. Haper! Today we can tell- would you like to see the sex?
Lady says, please don't be so excited, it's not mine... or his.
Nurse reply's, it's nothing to be ashamed of honey, many men can't produce aggressive sperm.
Wife says, that may be true doc', but my beach-ball plump stomach and your ultrasound says different, we aren't in love ya' know.
Relax. Sperm donors drink coffee too- smoke
a couple packs a day. Time release stimulants lock
in the hard erection long enough to stop
the scent of cherry-red licorice from sticking
breast to breast. He runs wind-chapped
fingers with a sober suavity through
mouse-oxidized hair, scissoring across
tangled twines, patches of passion left
over from an appointment with a phallic
cylindrical plastic, a worthy variety of pent-
house "get-the-job-done" mags, and him--
new Abraham of pregnancy, literally a father
among nations whose bird-beaked nose,
a dominant gene in all, is more of a trademark
than discovering the sex. So while Mrs. Well-
To-Do O.B.G.Y.N squirts another liquidy
cold load on the patient's stomach, rubbing it
over with a metal see-through lens, the wife
says, Beauty is a whore, I sometimes
say. I like money better. We call these sonograms
of love. Smiling she looks one last time
at the nurse, compliments her handwork, and before
lying her head back onto the cushioned
table she purses her flesh-pink plumps
and says, My husband and I are merely
voyeuristic creatures, this is our 23rd...
and our income. The nurse tips
off each latex into the metal can, washes
three times with rubbing alcohol, closes
the oak-wood door, and scurries to find her boss
telling him she quits. Oh! she pipes, you have a
pregnant patient in 302 waiting for her sonogram.
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