Sneak preview

Here's a poem upcoming in the new review, one I particularly like.

My Last Erotic Poem
Lorna Crozier

Who wants to hear about
two old farts getting it on
in the back seat of a Buick,
in the garden shed among vermicttlite,
in the kitchen where we should be drinking
ovaltine and saying no? Who wants to hear
about 26 years of screwing,
our once-not-unattractive flesh
now loose as unbaked pizza dough
hanging between two hands before it's tossed?
Who wants to hear about two old lovers
slapping together like water hitting mud,
hair where there shouldn't be
and little where there should,
my bunioned foot sliding
up your bony calf, your calloused hands
sinking in the quickslide of my belly,
our faithless bums crepitous, collapsed?
We have to wear our glasses to see down there!
When you whisper what you want I can't hear,
but do it anyway, and somehow get it right. Face it,
some nights wed rather eat a Hdagen-Dazs ice cream bar
or watch a movie starring Nick Nolte who looks worse than us.
Some nights we'd rather stroke the cats.
Who wants to know when we get it going
we're revved up, like the first time-honest like
the first time, if only we could remember it,
our old bodies doing what you know
bodies do. worn and beautiful and shameless.