If you don’t “mind” the “V” word, read on. But remember, I warned you. Also, to anyone who objects, please remember: COPYING, XEROXING, AND DISTRIBUTING MY WORK IS A COPYRIGHT VIOLATION. YOU MAY GO TO JAIL. (I have had mean “stalkers” lately.)
OK, the snarky scolding is out of the way. Fasten your seatbelts!
Me & V
I am a woman.
Each morning I
sit on my vagina and drink coffee.
Every day is
Take Your Vagina To Work Day.
“Betty” watches
while I pee and used to
participate in my monthlies.
She knows my husband. Well.
Me and my vagina have been
through thick and…
not-so-thick.
I’ve taken care of her for years.
In return, she opened wide and
helped deliver my baby girl.
Me and my vagina: BFFs.
So, Congress, don’t tread on us.
Together, we are a formidable foe.
Just ask my ex.
© 2014 Poetry and Artwork by Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
First, a disclaimer: Betty is not really my BFF. My friend John in Philadelphia is. Somehow, I know that this particular order in the greater scheme of things will bring him comfort… and a laugh.
When ABC Wednesday asked for poems about the letter V… well, ’nuff said!! Peace and reproductive rights for all, unless you want to outlaw Viagra and submit tests on fathers before termination of pregnancies, Amy
Skinny-Dipping
Sixteen, never been sexed
Sipping pilsner pilfered from the basement fridge
Sssssh, out the back door
Stripping down to go skinny-dipping with… Johhhhhn
Time, place, the most potent of opportunities
We slip into steaming midnight summer water
His member more sumptuous than tight jeans ever hinted
My breasts afloat, begging to be bobbed for like juicy ripe apples
My ache, my throb – will he sense it,
and act on this rhythmically pulsing moonlit mystery
I always craved what was not mine for the taking
Swimming naked
with gay boys
© 2009 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Margo Roby’s Wordgathering: Summer Tryouts and my little swimming pool, Poets United!
Today is the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the Gay Rights Movement in New York City. Gay men had finally had enough of being beaten and sodomized by police; one man picked up a cobblestone in from of the Stonewall Bar and threw it, and calamity and justice began with that one brick. (I know some say that riots were technically in the wee hours of June 28, as the bars closed… but get real. Do you wake up from a hangover on a Sunday and say, “Wow, I really drank too much at 2 this morning?” It was very, very late the night before.)
So why this poem today? Because my very proud and OUT Best Friend Forever, John Bickle, with whom I share many skinny dips and much mischief in our early days, also celebrates his birthday today. He said, when he saw the TV reports of the Stonewall Riots, he thought to himself, “It’s an omen.”
No, Stonewall didn’t make him gay. God did.
But anyway, happy birthday to my BFF, and may you continue to play piano bar and wow Philadelphia for many years to come! (His usual gig is at Knock, so you Philly friends, get you butts over to their Piano Room and hear a phenomenal tenor – and great pianist!) Love, Amer
Sharp Little Pencil 