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Ode to the Clitoris.

 Little eagerness; flower-girl basket of soft thorn and petal, near
the entry of the satin column of the inner aisle; scout in the
wilderness; wild ear which perks up; tender dowser, which points; imp;
shapeshifter; bench-pressing biceps of a teeny goddess who is buff;
lotus for grief; weensy Minerva who springs full-armored, molten--I did
not know you, at seven, I thought you were God's way of addressing
me, when I kept swinging on the rings, after the bell had rung... He
didn't use his words, he used you to get my attention, he wrenched
me and wrenched me, then, in six or seven wrenches of my body and brain,
you the tiny wrench which winched the wrenches. Later, you would do that
without God-- with boys, with kisses, and later you'd become an
instrument of love's music. Today, I saw your portrait for the
first time, your dorsal vein, your artery, your cavernous body, your
vestibular bulb, your suspensory ligament--and I could see how evolution
got the idea from you, to invent a creature with something like you but
a lot bigger. You were named for a Greek hill, klinein
 , a slope--you are the ground of our being, the tiny figure of the
human, the hooded stranger who comes to the door, and if we bless her we
will be blessed. 
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Author:Olds, Sharon
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2012
Words:259
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