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Country Erotica Butterflies flutter like lingerie left out to dry and to tantalize a little. The thistles’ purple nipples harden. A gawky wasp wields his stinger awkwardly, like a teenager’s perpetual hard-on. The plantains’ phalli climb like the silly towers of San Gimignano. Just call me Ruth among the corn’s erections. I want to run my hands through the fescue’s whiskers and kudzu’s let-down hair. My mouth remembers where the roses were. Chicory electrifies the air. Crickets throb with sex’s iambics. Cicadas—in see-through negligees— try to synchronize their sizzling too. No one doubts the crow’s O–O–O as it echoes across the meadow. Now the wild rye’s velvet spikelets droop, half-soft, and a snake sloughs off its skin (some designer condom). Frogs seem to purr. Dusk’s breath is slow. I bask in the fireflies’ afterglow. 33 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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