Poem by Jack Powers

Illustration by James Conant



He wasn't sure how he happened to look up
and see her
but his insides just sort of
blew apart
because she wasn't alone, no
she was with someone else
again
and he saw that instant familiarity of hers
working it out of with another dude,
she, always, opening all the stops, all ways
thinking past him when they are together,
thrilled by what she makes people feel,
thrilled at movies of herself
they compose with their eyes,
all thrust and pull with her so
thoroughly corruptible looks
innocent sin sex loveliness
at the shack in the railroad yard,
the workers trooping through,
spending just a few minutes
not even taking off clothing,
all of them, passing her, stopping briefly
to use the exposed body,
that thing of shapes of crevices
that makes the veins stand out in men's foreheads,
that enlarges appetite so instantly,
she, enjoying so much that physical chemistry,
using herself,
in the back rows of 75 cent movies,
sliding soft thigh openings toward bewildered masturbators,
fleshing out a thousand fantasies,
bending, stretching, arching, swallowing,
accomodating what happens to men
when they look at her,
and he settles again
into that comfortable stroke
of self-pity
in front of the super reality
of an all-knowing,
ever-accusing mirror
that keeps saying
you are there, too.