'Why I Pity the Woman Who Never Spills'
For she misses the luxury of dribbling
marinara sauce on white silk,
of merlot falling at uproarious dinner
parties onto beige lace tablecloths,
picnics where mustard, baked beans,
toasted marshmallows and melted
chocolate all leave their winsome,
gregarious stains on Levis and lips.
For she misses the thrill and mess of it all:
hands infatuated with bread dough,
logic blemished all day with sly innuendoes
and double entendres, the child in the lap
with the histrionic green lime popsicle kiss,
the kettle with its secret military spices
longing in its heart of heart to spill the beans,
mangoes eaten au natural in bathtubs,
sweet-talking, profane juices softening
the millstones and milestones of the body,
the plum's intemperate noddings in a neighbor's
nonchalant field, tartness oozing like ink
across obeisant fingers, strawberries
caught red-handed in golden-straw beds,
falling upwards towards one's mouth--
small, fierce advocates of sumptuous rendezvous.
I say to her: Spill, Spurt, Squirt, Splash, Splatter,
Spot, Spree, Sprinkle, Dribble, Drabble, Oozle,
Offend, Transcend, Transude, Transgress, Transpire,
Perspire, Percolate, Partake, Propagate, Create!
[Joan Wolf Prefontaine, from 33 Minnesota Poets
intended to have been posted 19 April 2015]