Barbara Hamby

Ode to Words for the Body

Having just read an article that called for changing

            the names of the human female orifices

to front hole and back hole, I have stopped to ponder

            language, and though vagina and anus

are not two of my favorite words, I'm not ready to say,

            “Double-plus good” to this linguistic foray,

and I'm thinking about Ludwig Wittgenstein, whose ideas

about language began in the front hole/back hole,

 just-the-facts-ma’am school but later saw language as play,

            though he did say, “I don’t know why we are here,

but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves,”

            which I can’t agree with at all, because why are there

beauty and play if not to have fun, so here’s to the body—

            which is a party animal par excellence, yes, you,

mouth—my pucker lapper, rosy red woodpecker

            of nerve endings and laughter, my ha-ha factory,

double dirigible of lips, tongue cave, tooth booth,

            talking machine, and you, eyes—lying cameras

of the brain’s deluded mirror, flutter cups of unutterable

            nothings, and ears—wax catchers, amaryllis of Mozart

and bebop, Vertigo palace, radio fact checker of the coming

apocalypse, and nose—sniffer out of fresh bread

and autumn’s crisp mornings, not to mention breasts—

Valkyries, va-va-voom vortex of velvet croissant,

and you, vagina—sex orchid, unfolding hibiscus,

            vulva incroyable, leading to the thighs—Minoan columns

of the body’s lions gate, and knees—knobby outposts

on the pathway to the feet, sometimes on the earth,

which many call dirt and others terra firma, which we first see

when we descend from the front hole, sliding slick

into this land of a thousand dances—our skin canoe

carrying us into the scream of our first night.

Ode to Juno, Queen of Heaven

Bad mood Mama, jagged goddess of steamed open letters, crabby

            czarina of the next move, how do I circumnavigate

this ragged world, because the roads are rippling with brigands

            and fools, nymphs and satyrs playing possum,

so where is the magic, my queen, where is the party, wine flowing

            and no one afraid of being turned into a snake? O shake

that rattle of rage because your man’s strapping on his swan costume,

            his bull’s horns, shimmering into a shower of gold. Don’t blame

the girls. They were minding their own business when what happened?

            Danae is still trying to figure it out, but Leda is riding it

like a wave. Go to hell, Zeus-meister, you stuffed sock of a god,

            no good to anyone but the hellraisers and yes-men

who clabber up the air on Mt. O. Oh, no, not another costume,

            and off he goes while you cook up a poison brew with toads

and red-capped mushrooms your nymphs have gathered from the forest

            floor, more than enough to send the whole human tribe

to Styx. So mix it up, baby, throw some psychedelic mojo

            in your vat of cherry Kool-aid and tell us it’s happy hour,

because we’re waiting for an oblivion cocktail to help us pass

            on over to the other side, ride that wild monkey

into the delirious night, fight the pretty good fight against

            the puffed-up gods on their gerrymandered chariots

of gold. Hold the line! What’s that? The Titans are back. We’re

            in deep Shinola now, my queen. Lead us into temptation,

deliver us from our own worst impulses, like dressing up

            for the party of doom in the waiting room at the train station

before the next trip into a year of who knows what—war or peace,

            a new lease on the old body that still dreams of running wild.