A F T,  B U M P E R,  C A N

S

Lines on Your Bottom


What shall I call thee? Let me count the words.
Shall I call thee bum, buttocks, rump or rear,
such common terms for one whose gusts like birds
so gently stir the air? No! Let us hear

softer sobriquets—backside, derrière—
or those lighthearted—fanny, booty, cheeks—
that better fathom one so firm and fair,
whose lunar curves demand frenzied, wild weeks

to best explore. Yet e’en a googolplex
of words—nates, nalgas, bumper, transom, tail,
and on and on for a million parsecs,
not near enough to grasp your holey grail—

     cannot justice do. I kneel, defeated.
     Face to face with you, I am unseated.

 

birds