Dear Curiosity

0

 

Please more harlequin,
less sweatpants. More seismograph
less cardiograph. Speak only
in questions like, Do bees itch?
Can the sky hear?
Do horses rate each other’s shoes?
Feather me like cherry trees with longing.
That’s not original.
You’re limited by my limits.
Should we fight more often?
Invent sexual positions?
Is that cliché too—
sex the only home
for imagination?
Curiosity, is it?
The world dulls
on its screens. Seeming known
yet only always seeming.
We fret because passion’s
a flower not a tree.
Like grieving a bird
for not being a jacket.
Curiosity, I’ve gone astray.
I meant to ask you to superglue
me to discomfort, to riddles,
to a planetary lack of inhibition.
If that means buying a sexual trapeze,
terrific. I’ll teach petunias
magic tricks, ask at last for a translation
of my heart’s hieroglyphics.
Make my spine flexible as rain.

Dear Curiosity by Amie Whittemore


Photo used under CC.

Share.

About Author

blank

Amie Whittemore is the author of the poetry collection Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press) and co-founder of the Charlottesville Reading Series in Virginia. Her poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Sycamore Review, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: