What Helen Told Her Sister
His penis erect bent down then left then up again
like a swayback horse with a touch of scoliosis
or a section of drain pipe that someone or something
had stepped on and tried to straighten after or a finger
crooking to say come here baby, come here. In her hand
it felt like a thick corkscrew but inside, thrusting away
as was its nature, it felt straight enough and vigorous,
direct and business-like. A journeyman cock, she said.
Serviceable. It seemed not to impede his pleasure
or hers. She wondered though how it got that way.
Was it hereditary? Was he the last (so far)
of a long line of crooked cocks? Or had nurture
made it so, too many years of wearing underwear
constricting or always crossing his legs one way
or sad love unrequited? Would he be dildo-straight
if he wore those loose-fit boxers or thoughtlessly
man-spread when he sat, his legs flung wide open
as if to advertise and invite? So, it was not a pornsicle
dick or supermodel prick with six-pack abs to stroke
and pecs to lick and attitude as bold and bristly
as Texas desert. No, it was not a mythic Grecian
phallus carved in rigid marble and bigger than life.
It was more a handy kitchen gadget almost forgot
at the back of the drawer but perfect for certain jobs.
She said, I think I will keep it, Phoebe, at least for now.
Cecil Morris retired after 37 years of teaching high school English, and now he tries writing himself what he spent so many years teaching others to understand and enjoy. He has had poems published in 2River View, Cobalt Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Poem, South Carolina Review, and other literary magazines. He likes cruciferous vegetables too little and ice cream too much.