Sexy Is the Least Interesting

thing I do, but it’s the thing I’ve done the most,

and now that I can glide through a supermarket

without a stock boy’s notice, now that I am

indistinguishable from the day-olds and the must-gos

and the bend of my waist above the cheese bin

brings not a one to their knees—I must confess, Allen G,

that the stacked peaches are more fuzz for me than flesh

these days, the eggplants less turgid, swelling gleam

than a problem of use. In the dream of the produce aisle,

all was emoji. The carts slid inside the other carts

without a hitch. The bins held their contents tightly.

All was desire and surplus—once I touched

a cellophaned cube of meat and felt it gently give

beneath the pressure. I was a woman who left a mark.

I lived dangerously. Now the store detective marks me

as yet another white, suburban mother. My God, Allen,

yesterday I shoplifted a turkey and no one noticed. I wish I could

close my eyes and see you on aisle C17 once more—

Speak to me again of out-of-season

asparagus—the girth of them—I want to feel

the parsnips thick beneath my hand, I want to bite

the sliced orange sample and let the juice drip, and see

another person’s eyes gaze hungrily.

Allen, I have been considering the cost of things

and ideas. Allen, my queer shoulder is bared

in an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.

Above the lettuce, false lightning

and simulated thunder. Tinny Gene Kelly

sings out about rain and joy from across the century,

and the mist that sprays does not spray for me.