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

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