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out poems. Somehow she can work

      both sides of her brain simultaneously, the poem

      being what’s really going on and the sex being what sounds

      like what’s going on; the only time she stops typing

      is when she pinches her cheek away from her gums,

      which is supposed to sound like oral sex

      though she says it’s less that it really sounds like oral sex

      than that these men have established a pact, a convention

      that permits them to believe it sounds like oral sex.

      When they know

      it’s a woman pinching her cheek and not a blow job,

      it’s a telephone call and not a blow job,

      it’s a light beam whistling down a fiber, for god’s sake,

      and not a blow job. Most days I’m amazed

      we’re not all schizophrenics, hearing voices

      that have been edited out of what calls to us

      from across the fourth wall. I’ve heard

      that in To Have and Have Not Lauren Bacall’s singing

      comes from the throat of a man; also that Bart Simpson is really

      a middle-aged woman; and last week not once but twice

      I heard different women wailing

      in public parking lots, the full throttle

      of unrestrained grief, and both times I looked straight at them

      and pretended nothing unusual was going on,

      as though what I was hearing were only the sound of air

      shrieking through the spoiler on someone’s Camaro.

      That’s also part of the pact my friend’s talking about,

      not to offer condolence, not to take note.

      You don’t tell the men they’re sorry creatures,

      you don’t ask the women what went wrong.

      If you’re being mugged or raped or even killed

      you have to scream “Fire!” instead of “Help!”

      to get someone to help you. Though soon, if not already,

      all the helpers will have caught on

      and then you’ll have to start screaming something else,

      like that you’ve spotted Bacall or Harrison Ford on the street,

      Bart Simpson even—no wait a minute, he’s not real,

      though I remember a time when even the president talked about him

      as if he were human. It’s not the sleaziness

      of phone sex I bristle at, but rather the way it assists

      the world in becoming imprecise

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