It’s Not about the Sex

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

It’s not about the sex, about the fecund smell of vanilla, vervain and hops.
One bus stop’s bridegroom, moon-faced, gleams at his intended.
She, a hairdresser, glows with words, storytells her boyfriend.
That ever-so-ripe woman’s belly belies commercial incident.

The pair grasps that objects, not tools, forge social cartels from church people,
Cause community college jocks to take responsibility for spasms of mentations,
Bring about immediate and complete interventions from boxing instructors,
Prevent nice children from going full throttle against other undeveloped sauceboxes.

On alternate generic shelves, as well in comestible shops, and on popple trees,
Publications containing tidbits on plighting one’s troth, without toxic chemicals,
Sans physically distressing manipulations, devoid of stuffing choice mailboxes,
Gets snatched up by trouble-making fancy pants, their mothers, some albondigas chefs.

Holding hands, for the purpose of adoring liquid gold or inflorescence blossoms,
Interesting local papers in stories about sticky comforts or sycophantic civil servants,
Touting local populace’s more complicated daily tasks, exposed toes, or flaxen ways,
Forces select practitioners to regard uncial jottings, squirrels, kittens, fishes, and curses.

Pain, accordingly dissipated, might allow sleeping, eating, caring for mice, mountains,
Defending invaluable lab equipment, rippling peace through laundry, daffodils, thunder,
Sniffing herbal analgesics, calling distant relatives, disfiguring cold-hearted armies,
Maybe trying out some new, shellac-based nail polish, while embracing pencil pushers.

What’s more, eventually, children abrogate, often with great aplomb or ballet solos.
Their mental constructs, though, remain empty of regret for openly behaving
Past esculent mores, beyond laggy sabots, clear of high leveled adolescent glamour.
Position, ever after, in most disposable cultures, leads to matrimony.