So, I posted this poem first about a month ago. But I chose to workshop it in the Creative Writing class that I am in, and have continued to work on it. This is the next iteration of the piece.
We lock our knees together so
tightly that sometimes we drape our silky
bodies over winter beds and imagine what
dogwoods must feel in April.
We relish our purity, as if being untouched
makes our bodies rounder in all
the right ways, thinking of when we’ll be reduced to
something sweet against the cool cinderblock
of the custodial closet.
A generation of intellectual sluts
we open our minds – whoring ourselves
out to the gnarled poetics of men in blue ties, bespectacled men,
men who give us their publications like we are
panhandlers with growling thought, a bastion of potent
intellect, narcissistic in our naiveté,
Friday nights bent over
books, a cerebral prostitution
our brains stuffed with the words of dead men,
wing-tipped men, men who make lunch
appointments, our wrists bound
to the bed frame with strings attached to a final paper or
letter of recommendation, we recommend
getting drunk first,
it will make his antiquated erudition
easier to swallow.