The Problem With Celibacy by Simone Muench

The body has its own idea of rebellion.
It leans into strangers, gas-station
attendants, the Piggly Wiggly
check-out boy; it presses itself against
the hot hoods of running cars.

Your body embarrasses you: the
architecture of its plush flesh, its need
for touch. You can’t visit
the local bar without propositioning
the bartender, pressing your pelvis

against the bouncer as you stumble
out of nightclubs into the street
where lampposts illuminate couples
kissing, caressing, grinding
while trees whisper obscenities.

The shuffle of leaves on sidewalks rasp
like skin. The heat from asphalt rises
up your thighs in the tongue of hot air.
The cats in the alley are a constant
remainder of your status.

Even shadows are attractive. You stop
eating chocolate, kiwis, oysters for fear
of mauling the mailman. You lock
yourself in your house where you
rub against the fur of TV static.

You toss out your Turrentine albums, freesia-
scented soap, silk pajamas. Everything
is sex. Your radio goes, magazines, kitchen
towels. Until your house is bare,
sterile. You breathe easier

but then notice the body’s natural
pulsations: heartbeat, eyeblink, breathing.
There is nothing that isn’t a metaphor.
Outside, it is humid, the city smells
like breath, the madness of teeth.

So you throw open windows and doors,
air thick with calendula, heat,
the silver trill of crickets
sends you reeling into spring and
a renegotiation with desire.