Rondeau at the Train Stop in  General   

It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display. The Puritans were right! Sin
is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound

in the population. it bothers me
because it's summer now and sticky - no rain
to cool things down; heat like a wound
that will not close. Too hot, these shameful
percolations of the body that bloom
between strangers on a train. It bothers me

now that I'm alone and singles foam
around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings
of sweat. Know this bay's a watery animal, hind-end
perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain
so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.

By Erin Belieu

Tell Your Friends About It | Print This Poem

Comments

You should be logged in to be able to leave comments

Other poems by Erin Belieu:

• Against Writing about Children
• From On Being Fired Again
• Georgic on Memory
• Rondeau at the Train Stop
• The Hideous Chair