In the Supermarket of Orgasms
after Allen Ginsberg and Louise Gluck
Some nights I feel so alone in my longing for you, love, alone in my supermarket of orgasms as I cruise the aisles of produce, contemplating two pears, asking myself, Do I dare? Or do I dare eat a peach? Or these plums, so cold, so sweet? But then I see the store detective watching me in the convex mirror. (He’s such a perv!) And Louise Gluck in the floral section, pushing a cart filled with fragrant flowers, swearing she hates their scent. As I watch (she thinks I’m not looking) she presses her face into the blossoms and inhales deeply. A little cry of pleasure escapes her lips. And I inhale with her and cry out, too. For how can I resist?
How can I live without that scent in the air? Or that odor in the world, as Louise calls it? I ask this as I close my eyes and think of you, love, of your lips sealing my mouth as my cry rises higher and higher, mounting until I rise up with it, leaving Louise far below, discontentedly contemplating her next lie or line as the little wheels of her grocery cart squeak and spin around and around like a question pursuing an answer that has already drifted through the sliding doors and out into the night.