My Poems Get More Likes When They are Sexy

I figure if there are nude shots of Lisa Bonet on the internet under images, I can write about them, no?! I wanted to share I did get lilacs for Mother's Day, a bush! Never underestimate the power of suggestion (or FaceBook where I hinted to my kids, Thanks Misha and Emily :))

My Poems Get More Likes When They are Sexy

In a collection of letters
I have from my dead father,
who didn’t want his amor
to show her parents his correspondence,
he wrote in the margins and between lines
you are hot, I want to kiss you
only he said it with way more
hotness and mentioned the places
he wanted to kiss.
I was shocked when I discovered them
and they are the ones I read most.

It is tempting to so spice up
a solemn poem I penned a few weeks ago,
"An Open Letter to the Man Who
Killed Himself on My Property,"
from my low numbers,
the poem was as well social media suicide.
I should have said
"An Open Letter to the (Sexy) Man..."
it wouldn’t be a stretch,
Claus built our house with his own hands,
arousing for sure.

Similarly, my person receives more
comments when I am coquettish,
more shares when I employ suggestion,
loosening a button on my blouse
or choosing heels over flats,
which I do sometimes and yes
always to be better liked.
Yet, I try not to manipulate
the number of clicks my prose procures,
too easy to throw in a reference to my ass
to keep the readers interest,
a cheap trick to use cheap tricks.

I am pleased my readers are a randy bunch,
as I prefer such company,
if my thoughts were cartoon bubbles,
every other one would be an innuendo,
they’d be studded with stars and exclamations.
I am not sure where I want to
go with this poem, certainly not
moralizing since sex is the factory
pumping out the world, its products being
each bird and bee, each flower and tree.

Rather, I am learning the parts of us
we banish, the bitch and judge,
the hissy and hussy,
once in timeout, collude to colonize.
It is best to befriend them,
the lawyer wants our case fairly tried,
the diva vies for self care.

Even the voyeur is hoping for wholeness,
for beauty and pleasure.
Mine recently googled Lisa Bonet,
a child star from The Cosby Show.
My ogler couldn’t tell you what Lisa has been up to
for twenty years of her career,
the initial reason for the internet search,
only in images she was pictured topless
and her nipples reminded of cookies
called Bright Eyed Susans,
Hersey kisses nestled in a ring of vanilla dough.
Such fun it was to help
my mother make them.
Such a secret, my quiet giggles,
when I positioned the dark chocolate sweet.