THE OWNER OF THE BOUTIQUE AT
REDWOOD FALLS

There came a time when she found pleasure

in saying the word pussy, alert to see whom it shocked

or didn’t. It was the same time when penis often felt

like a mere gentleman of a word, though the thing itself

remained to her a sweet second best, an option. Pussy

was groove and tongue, sometimes a perfect fit,

which meant to her a connection

that didn’t need to be explained.

It had a language unto itself, gospel-like, rapturous

oohs and throaty huzzahs coming from a church

in the woods with its doors always open.

She also liked saying cock, those early mornings

she heard it call to her from afar,

when she’d wake and begin to dream.

Finally, though, she had to admit a penis

was silly, mostly hiding, like a diphthong

in a sentence you had to work too hard to figure out.

Whereas pussy was something that could go

the extra mile, give repeat performances,

and was peculiarly hers. She knew how it worked,

and when it didn’t want to, and what she wanted

to hear if she desired the naughty, the needed.