Kim Addonizio: Two poems

In the darkness of the booth, you have to find

the slot blindly and fumble the quarter in. The black

shade goes up. Now there's a naked woman.

dancing before you and you're looking

at her knees, then raising your eyes

to the patch of wiry hair which she obligingly parts

with two fingers while her other hand

palms her boy from breast to hip

and it's you doing it, for a second

you're touching her like that and when

you lift your face to hers she's not

gazing into space as you expected but

looking back, right past you, with an expression

that says I love you, i belong to you compl-but then the barrier descends. You shove

another quarter in but the thing has to close down

before slowly widening again like a pupil adjusting

to the absence of light and by the time it does

you've lost her. She's moved on to the next

low window holding someone's blurred face,

and another woman is coming nearer

under the stage lights and in the mirrors,

looking so happy to see you trapped there

like some poor fish in a plastic baggie

that will finally be released into a small bowl

with a ceramic castle and a few colored rocks,

and you open your mouth just like a fish waiting

for the flakes of food, understanding nothing

of what causes them to rain down

upon you. You can feel your hunger sharpening

as she thrusts herself over and over into

the air between you. And now, unbelievably,

there comes into your mind

not the image of fucking her

but an explanation you heard once

of what vast distances exist

between any two electrons. Suppose,

the scientist said, the atom were the size

of an orange; then imagine that orange as big

as the earth. The electrons inside it

would be only the size of cherries. Cherries,

you think, and inserting your quarter you see one

sitting on an ice floe in the Antarctic, a pinprick

of blood, and another in a village in north Africa

being rolled on the tongue of a dusty child

while the dancer shakes her breasts at you,

displaying nipples you know you'll never

bite into in this lifetime; all you can do

is hold tight to the last useless coins

and repeat to yourself that they're solid,

they're definitely solid, you can definitely feel them.

Kim Addonizio is the author of The Philosopher's Club, published by BOA Editions, 1994. She is a contributing editor of ZIPZAP, an e-zine on the World Wide Web (http://zipzap.com).

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul 1995
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved