COOL THEATRE: OYSTER PLOT

We had HUMAN SEX. at the Lyric,
meaning winter afternoons spent off-campus in the old moviehouse,
a full course of theoretical male extensions
and stylized female parts,
our bottoms anchored to those worn velvet cushions.
For three credit-hours, slide shows descended,
professor droning about penile projections,
gender specific lubricants, and the mind (little on that)
began to wander,
                       as if someone's finger were added
to velvet, stirring concepts into undulant bodily waves.
The brain lifted the limits, lowered its brow,
and slowly the teeth began to show,
a come-on to those near at hand.
                                               Think of a theatre
that dark, with the Devil to your left, and on your right
a deep, inviting blue sea.
Throw off the arm rests, make quick work of the chairs
till the three of you levitate to roll through the stuffy air of the Lyric,
tongues loose as oysters alive in the mouth
when you whisper you want more,
you want to rise high as the mountains, the devil forking you up,
the sea cresting you farther, higher, bluer . . .
tongues slip, lick the lip open
until you are all one glistening lover of mother-of-pearl.

First published in Virginia Quarterly Review and Poetry Daily