There Used to Be Sacred Things

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Abstract

things, Like a sister’s underwear drawer And a father’s top drawer, Or even the teacher’s desk drawer, The middle one — the one guarded By an overripe bosom and that Silence of the Lambs look That begged you to be foolish, And knew if you were. Or even wanted to be. No one ever said “don’t do it”, We just knew it — and that was The magnet, the scent of forbidden fruit, The hiss of a clever serpent, And, a subtle flash of thigh, Al

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l mixed up in a cocktail gathering Of the senses. Shaken and stirred, we drank. Ears to the walls of our parents room We wept and kept on telling ourselves “Nothing has changed” and “Maybe she said hug me pardner!” or “Chuck me a towel!” We dropped the y from mommy And called him sir, And found to our sorrow That we could never look at him or her In quite the same light because, There used to be sacred things.</p></article></body>

There Used to Be Sacred Things

There used to be sacred things, Like a sister’s underwear drawer And a father’s top drawer, Or even the teacher’s desk drawer, The middle one — the one guarded By an overripe bosom and that Silence of the Lambs look That begged you to be foolish, And knew if you were. Or even wanted to be. No one ever said “don’t do it”, We just knew it — and that was The magnet, the scent of forbidden fruit, The hiss of a clever serpent, And, a subtle flash of thigh, All mixed up in a cocktail gathering Of the senses. Shaken and stirred, we drank. Ears to the walls of our parents room We wept and kept on telling ourselves “Nothing has changed” and “Maybe she said hug me pardner!” or “Chuck me a towel!” We dropped the y from mommy And called him sir, And found to our sorrow That we could never look at him or her In quite the same light because, There used to be sacred things.