The Body's Small Pleasures
By Alison Stone
Men, avoid the obvious --
smooth metal in the palm and the small
red hole in the side of the deer.
Women, do not cry
"You have conquered me"
to the city on a hazy morning
stuck in traffic
when the maddening obdurate rhythm
makes you small and desperate,
so helpless you are freed at last
from the body's small pleasures and their
shadows of loss.
The world is peopled with sockets and plugs,
empty holes and objects
in need of a place to go.
Climb the ladder of your body --
each breath a rung --
to the still place where desire
isn't born, the formless
place you enter sometimes
when your skin melts
and your breath is weather.