Poems Rethabile Likes

Sardinia by Bruce Hunter Sardinia (as told by Margaret) Ours was a Cold War love. Stationed on the Pine Tree, second defence to the DEW Line, south of Saskatoon in the grassy hills, a stretch of radar domes, like igloos across the near north. We lived in the officers' compound, I went back there once, just to see. Nothing left now but loops of asphalt where the trailers butted into the hillsides. My husband in those long Saskatchewan nights, told of Sardinia, his first posting. And those Mediterranean girls with their darker skin. Names he called out as he reached for me in his sleep. And we played cards: kitchens and living rooms full of smoke. With other couples, always officers and their wives, none of us unmatched, as we bowled in the two lane alley next to the officers' mess. All the codes of dress and decorum. And I never s...

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls by E. E. Cummings the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds (also, with the church’s protestant blessings daughters, unscented shapeless spirited) they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead, are invariably interested in so many things— at the present writing one still finds delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles? perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D …the Cambridge ladies do not care, above Cambridge if sometimes in its box of sky lavender and cornerless, the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy Poet: E. E. Cummings Source: @Poets.org Books: @AbeBooks

The Sisters of Sexual Treasure by Sharon Olds The Sisters of Sexual Treasure As soon as my sister and I got out of our mother's house, all we wanted to do was fuck, obliterate her tiny sparrow body and narrow grasshopper legs. The men's bodies were like our father's body! The massive hocks, flanks, thighs, elegant knees, long tapered calves– we could have him there, the steep forbidden buttocks, backs of the knees, the cock in our mouth, ah the cock in our mouth.    Like explorers who discover a lost city, we went nuts with joy, undressed the men slowly and carefully, as if uncovering buried artifacts that proved our theory of the lost culture: that if Mother said it wasn't there, it was there. Poet: Sharon Olds Source: @RonNowPoetry Books: @AbeBooks