lacy l. schutz








Everybody knows 

women’s lips

are a metaphor

for the labia. Some women

paint both. A kiss,

therefore, is a trial run,

a suggestion, an audition.



We kiss and

according to tradition

forget what we remembered


We fuck and

according to propriety

forget what we knew


We put our fingers in each other’s pudding and

according to the tale

forget all we learned



I am not the exegete of the canon of love.



My new shoes and my scarlet lipstick, they comfort me

My Lady Chic razor and my index to U.S. area codes, they comfort me

My heart and my haplography, they comfort me

My sense of duty and my brooch, they comfort me

My pen and my history, they urge me

My glossolalia and my shaking teeth, they torment me

My brain’s cavaedium and my vapidity, they keep me

My cocktail and my lachrymosity, they comfort me

My plain dress and my long braid, they comfort me

My lover, my lover, comfort me

My burn and my honor, they urge me

My lips and my snaky tongue, they comfort me



The world is full of weedy things:

rosy wolfsnails, roaches, fire 

ants, water hyacinths, 

fruit flies, kudzu, humans. 

Noxious, reproductive.



My night dreams go out to the desert and

perish there from self-imposed privation

or natural selection.



Jesus’ mother Mary was the cleverest bitch

of all time, the smartest girl ever—

convinced not just father and fiancé

but all posterity that

indiscretion was divine intervention, that

she was still a virgin and

her bastard child, a savior.

Jesus, the good son, the mama’s boy,

playing along all along or also

deceived by her story.

Just goes to show:

wishing makes it so