Personal

I want a man whose body makes mine hum,
who when he looks my way the sky goes hazy.
Don't call me if you're boring, crude or dumb.

Discussions about sports teams turn me numb,
and men who can't stop talking drive me crazy.
I want a man whose body makes mine hum,

who sweetly cries my name out as we come,
a sensual man, whose touch makes me feel dizzy.
Don't call me if you're angry, cheap or dumb.

I like full lips, bare skin, long winter nights, some
good red wine. I like to spend a lazy
morning with a man who makes me hum.

I like to wade in fountains just for fun,
to decorate my hairband with a daisy,
skinny-dipping, hopscotch, playing dumb.

I love good jazz, dancing till I'm numb,
deep snow, strong wind, a girl dressed up in paisley.
I want a man whose body makes mine hum.
Don't call me if you're rigid, mean or dumb.

--Beth Gylys

The Spectator

He loved to look at bodies, so he said.
His highrise faced another just as tall.
He didn't care for women in his bed,

preferred them through the window. "I'll never wed,"
he vowed. "Why bother? From here, I see it all."
"I only like to look," he often said.

"A neighbor pulls a dress over her head,
and I'm a happy man. Marriage is hell.
I don't need a woman in my bed."

His favorite window overlooked a spread
of neon signs. He called the woman "Nell,"
who often stood there looking out, he said,

half-nude. And while he watched she'd sometimes shed
her clothes right there. "I think she isn't well,"
he told me once. "I watch her from my bed.

She's lovely, but she seems distracted, sad."
If he was ever lonely, who could tell?
He loved to look at bodies, as he said.
He didn't want a woman in his bed.

--Beth Gylys

Do Not Dive Head-First

Do not dive head-first in that puddle of mud.
Most people know a puddle's not so deep;
Wade, wade, slowly into the brackish crud.

Though mud is fine between the toes, the blood
Is best inside the body. I beg you keep
Your head. Don't dive into that puddle of mud.

Young children love a mess and if they should
Discover puddles in the mud, they'd leap
And not wade slowly in the brackish crud.

Dogs all clipped and groomed, who mostly would
Obey, keeping their tresses tidy, heap
Their bodies into any puddle of mud.

Cows are thinkers; in rain, they chew their cud,
Musing on this world, and seem to weep.
They wade slowly through the brackish crud.

And you, my friend, don't fret you're not a stud.
Looks, like puddles, only go so deep.
Do not dive head-first in that puddle of mud.
Wade, wade slowly into the brackish crud.

--Beth Gylys

Preference

Some people need a harsher kind of love.
I like the smooth soft wetness of our sex.
I like the gentle easy way we move,

our bodies blending in a fleshy weave,
our lips, torsos, tongues a sensuous mix.
Some people need a harsher kind of love.

One plays the master; the other plays the slave.
They plunge each other's depths with plastic dicks.
I like him gentle. I like his easy move

against me, desire rising like a wave
that draws us slowly to its crest then breaks.
Some women need a harsher kind of love.

A brutish forceful man is what they crave.
They scream and bite; they claw each other's backs.
I like the gentle, easy way you move,

and taste and touch my skin, without a glove,
or ropes to bind me. How could I relax,
confronted with a harsher kind of love?
I'll take the gentle, easy way we move.

--Beth Gylys

Hard Luck

Allen Jones could not believe his luck.
He'd asked this woman Liza out for weeks.
All he really wanted was to fuck.

Now, first date, she sat there in his truck,
glancing in the mirror at her cheeks,
while he bought beer, amazed at his good luck.

About three miles away from home, a buck
jumped in the road. Allen slammed his brakes
and swore in silence, "Goddamn deer, you fuck

this night up, I swear I'll shoot you dead." The truck
began to spin. Allen woke to aches
all through his upper body. "What hard luck,"

he heard a strange voice say. Then someone stuck
him with a needle. He'd caused two other wrecks,
broken his jaw and ribs. He'd hoped to fuck;

instead, he lay in bed and had to suck
things through a straw for four depressing weeks.
He hadn't ever heard of such bad luck.
All he'd really wanted was to fuck.

--Beth Gylys

My Savior In the Form of a Bus

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ our Lord?"
An old, balding man was in my face.
He wasn't someone who could be ignored.

I thought he'd go away if I looked bored.
I rolled my eyes and yawned. He kept his place.
"Do you believe in Jesus Christ our Lord?"

"I'm Jewish, give it up," I moved toward
the street, but then my heel caught on some ice.
I fell. "You see, He mustn't be ignored."

This guy, I thought, is someone for the ward.
But I was at his feet. "It must be grace,"
he said, held out his hand. "You know the Lord

can work in wondrous ways." He'd struck a chord:
my days in Catholic school, a veil of lace,
these words a priest once said, that I'd ignored:

"He'll come to you, carrying a sword.
And Beth, how will you meet him face to face?"
My bus pulled up just then, thank the Lord,
rescuing me from questions I'd ignored.

--Beth Gylys