Teach what you know, indeed. For her Poet
was High Priestess and verse came when she came.
Sex made metaphors: “Poetry makes Smut
makes Prayer” — a Mysticism without shame.
I found, midst office hours, with a ¡Pink Grrr!
phattie and her, “Soulgasm,” that each thrust
caused a low, “ack,” skipped groove growl, inside her:
like my name cut off,: zack-zack-zack. “All lust
is a gift,” she claimed both in class and each
time clouds of sperm-fission burst in my verse,
in her ass. — MFA Teachers are odd
gods that way; but they’re not wrong when they teach
just how climax gushed out a universe
in our verse, in us, no matter how flawed.