that vast soup we’ll one day be stirred back into

Whitish brine, spooner’s gruel, 

mortality’s nectar, potent drool, 

foam on oceans 

where our ancestors first 

bubbled up (that vast soup 

we’ll one day
be stirred back into) . . . . 

O gluey sequel 

to kisses and licks, 

the loins’ shy outcry, 

blurt of melted pearl 

leaked into hungry mouths 

or between splayed legs 

in a dim, curtained room, 

while far off, down the hall, 

in the kitchen’s overlit, 

crumb-littered domain, 

ham is sliced, 

potatoes are peeled, 

and, emitting pungent milk, 

minced onions
begin to sizzle . . . . 

 

[Amy Gerstler {1956- } 'Ode to Semen', from Ghost Girl]