Reluctance

I don't want to hear about my mother's vagina,¹
Her bursitis,
or migraines, sure...
but no matter why it comes up,
hearing about that just reminds me
she has one
It makes me recall thumping beds...
closed doors and hushed voices
that think us kids are sleeping
when I'm trying to make my breakfast
and come upstairs
entering without knocking
seeing naked bodies entwined
sweat glistening in the mix of
bedside lamp and early morning sunlight
eyes staring in both directions
my feet starting to backtrack even before ordered out
I don't want to hear about it
'cause that'll make me remember arching backs,
bare breasts bobbing upon her chest,
and the "what if" that moves beyond what was seen
to what might have happened already
or may have happened later that morning
I don't want to hear
the furtive sighs and muffled gasps
that mingle with three decade old pictures of swimsuits
and skimpy summer dresses
to make my blood rise as I can't help but be reminded
that she was beautiful
and there's nothing for me to do but
surrender to my encaged yearns and lusts.²

¹in "Oh, Mother!", by WickedEve ©2004.
²in "Bent", by Lauren Hynde ©2003.