Poem/Procrastination

I'm working on a few different posts right now, but between working, packing, cleaning, traveling to and from New Jersey, and editing my brother's History essay, they have all been mercilessly shoved to the back burner. So, in an effort to not let the blog go dark, I am going to share this poem that was shared with me about a month or so ago by my delightful friend and fellow bibliophile Erin.
It's entitled "Late Poem" and the epigraph is from Nabokov (one of my favorite Russians, of whom there are many), specifically Ada, or Ardor. The poem is by Cynthia Zarin. I wasn't familiar with her before reading this, but have since become seriously enamored with her poetry.

Late Poem

" . . . a matter of changing a slide in a magic lantern."

I wish we were Indians and ate foie gras
and drove a gas-guzzler
and never wore seat belts

I'd have a baby, yours, cette fois,
and I'd smoke Parliaments
and we'd drink our way through the winter

in spring the baby would laugh at the moon
who is her father and her mother who is his pool
and we'd walk backwards and forwards

in lizard-skin cowboy boots
and read Gilgamesh and Tintin aloud
I'd wear only leather or feathers

plucked from endangered birds and silk
from exploited silkworms
we'd read The Economist

it would be before and after the internet
I'd send you letters by carrier pigeons
who would only fly from one window

to another in our drafty, gigantic house
with twenty-three uninsulated windows
and the dog would be always be

off his leash and always
find his way home as we will one day
and we'd feed small children

peanut butter and coffee in their milk
and I'd keep my hand glued under your belt
even while driving and cooking

and no one would have our number
except I would have yours where I've kept it
carved on the sole of my stiletto

which I would always wear when we walked
in the frozen and dusty wood
and we would keep warm by bickering

and falling into bed perpetually and
entirely unsafely as all the best things are
—your skin and my breath on it.

Forgive me for going completely "Barnard" on this one, but I think it encapsulates so perfectly what femininity is, without being flowery or overdone. It's romantic and sexy and real, all at once. Very interesting to juxtapose with the fact that I saw Bridesmaids yesterday.

Hopefully this will fend off my guilt at not writing anything original in the past month. My brain will produce something usable soon, I promise.