Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven
But your breath could melt a glacier at three
miles, she says, and then we might consider
the dirt under your nails, the way you slur
your sibilants, and how you seldom see
the cracked eggs in a carton, a downed tree
branch in front of you, the ripened blister
of paint in the bedroom, or your sister
lying drunk on the floor in her own pee.
Back to your armpits. Do you realize
we could bottle that aroma and make
a fortune? I inhale it and forgive
your many faults. The odor provokes sighs
and tingles, blushes I could never fake.
Ain’t love grand? Elevate those arms. Let’s live!
Never in my wildest dreams did I envision writing a poem about armpits. But the August 2015 Tupelo Press 30-30 challenge, and Plain Jane, the title sponsor, provided that opportunity. This first appeared here in April 2016, and was subsequently published in Algebra of Owls. Many thanks to editor Paul Vaughan for taking it.
O at the Edges 
All in favor of more poetry, poo-pertaining, et al. A hoot. And a love-story to boot! I caught this offering in an unexplicable “Delete” file before it was rescued. I shall reblog post-haste. Thanks, J
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One never knows what will appear in a poem!
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Or beside one as well.
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Ain’t that the truth!
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Reblogged this on Commentary, Outrages, Prose and Poetry and commented:
O At The Edges (Robert Okaji?) offering rescued from a “Delete” file. And a love-story, to boot! All in favor of more natural functions poetry. Enough gentlemen’s (and ladies?) agreement doctrine. Next up: farts.
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Thanks for reblogging. About the next up…
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😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
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Thank you! By the way, I found this in my spam folder. I haven’t a clue why it was there, but thought you should know.
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Manmade…
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Anything can grow into a poem
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And frequently does, without much conscious input from me! 🙂
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