Julie Sheehan: One Poem
HOT LITTLE CRICKET SONNET THAT WANTS WANTS WANTS
but hasn’t, being all but sex, all filch, iambic
shanked & muscle mad to batten
him thigh to knee but leave an oxygen
enough for one keen lust to breathe & want
but want what crickets want, fair hearing played
at night: he lie he lay he lain he lay
he laid me on the salt and pepper hay
he weltered yarrowly fey as lemonade
or something like that beyond the crunk of kenning
like saxifrage, Stonehenge, like fibulae
to ideate my chamber, like forewings
trussed by joints not dactyls & rhyme up-roughening
all tug and ballast, sinkhole, clubfoot weighed,
not worded: but touch me I will turn to thing.
—Julie Sheehan
Other poems from Julie Sheehan:
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/09/29/chives
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/237672