Jennifer Loyd | Poetry

Some days I aspire to be the kind of woman
who owns only one tier of panties.

She would know the correct order

in which to eat a breakfast

of pineapple, cashews, and green tea,
without having to factor-in cavities.

She would not bruise herself

with a knife and fork. She did not sit

silent while the linguist claimed bees
do not possess language.It matters

which questions we ask. Do animals

have language? Why don’t animals have language?

(The Italian brand name for DDT was “flit,”
as in, this’ll stop the bees from flitting about.)

That woman though—she has managed to live

within sight of the ocean. Even as I write this,

there is a man lying naked in a bed in her house,
the sea, flat as a photograph, lies beyond

his reach. That man is beautiful, and unnecessary,

unlike water. Unlike bees. Unlike desire.

What if I want everything?
What do I do with people who don’t?

Her desire is comfortable,

even pressing, as it does, against these seams.