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CK Edgeware's work has appeared in Up Against The Wall, Mother; Proof Rock; Poetry Conspiracy and other publications. She lives in San Diego, California.

View the rest of the poems from CK Edgeware in the April 2005 edition:

Fine Dining
by CK Edgeware

The second cousin who is always three words removed
from the point she is trying to make
is talking to the British chap with chapped lips
who is telling her he likes to go down
on a woman for hours without coming—
doesn’t want to come, doesn’t need to come
for a long long hold-onto-his-schlong time.

The second cousin is thrilled to hear this—
that her blind date can wait so long,
as she thinks but does not say—
not wanting her plate of scallops taken away,
“No part of you is ever going to touch any part of me,”
and also “by the way haven’t you heard of exfoliants?
Try Aveda or Body Basics For Men.”
And still further, “if you like silky and smooth and flick sucking slick,
Can’t you imagine that women do too?”

As the second cousin now removed sits exterior remote controlled,
surreptitiously enjoying sucking on a spring sprang sprung
spongy no one can eat just one scallop
that is right this minute please plumping her tongue,
she is interior head nodding, if the house is arockin don’t bother knockin’
head bobbing to the creamy dreamy skim milky sweetness of her ex-husband’s cockhead in her mouth, sweaty swollen and meaty just like this mollusk,
so sorry to have to swallow it here remembering how she swoon swallowed it there
while the British chap is thinking around the rim of his wine stem
that he would like to lift up her red petticoat skirt and plant himself for the evening
in her intriguing store of varied delights if not for the fact that
he is sure by her academic demeanor she doesn’t like to fuck at all,
and fuck all, why did he let her choose such a fine restaurant
and even finer Chambertin wine?

Now the second cousin three words removed
thinks more along certain lines and so on
that her ex-husband does not like to go down on women and
has not done so in twenty years because as he once pointed out
eyes step-n-fetch it wide, “Dear, that—
he does not say what “that” euphemistically is—
that is a mucous membrane,” and he is anatomically correct
and politically correct too in not referring to it as her beaver muff
gash cunt box, twat… Or god forbid, say it’s her snatch that
he must have been fearful was going to do just that,
snatch at his mustached lips and never give them back,
cat gut his tongue, pull it in and pull it out by the damn mucous membraned root,
because who really knows what goes on right under your nose
in that darkest of all darkrooms.

And then there is her mouth—and that too he did not like
to get into—
and her ass come to think of it, that he did in fact like to
fuck egress noblesse oblige.
And human beings are not consistent beings, and anyway, mucous membranes
one and all, she thinks that her ex-husband should hook up with this British chap
whose lips she is sure he would not have to kiss who does not have a vagina
as far as she can tell looking out the sides of her sloe eyes across the French
Provincial platters shrimp forks and BBC blather, and whose seat does have an appealing lift and separated quality to it if you want to reduce life
to the level of dropping and retrieving cloth napkins, and well
some of us do and some of us don’t, and so here we are,
right here is where it’s at.

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