Krysia Wazny McClain
Jack-in-the-Pulpit IV (1930) by Georgia O’Keeffe
How to explain it? Georgia here should not be shocking—
P-town rental. Still, in the plastic over the print, my reflection
caricatures me, standing at the foot of the bed in vintage ‘90s
jeans waiting for K to come through with the dildo
we boiled in a shallow pan, turning it, floor model
bought at a discount. Later, I’ll read that Jack-in-the-Pulpit
requires little care to grow, to give the spadix what it needs
to preach from beneath its hood of green and purple flowers—
no affection, no tenderness wanted for the flowers to give way
to clusters of red berries, to possess the sculpted quality
of hot peppers in miniature. Sometimes K kisses my neck
and chest in a flurry of soft blows, frenzy of thirst.
Just before, she exhales a small scoffing sound that witnesses
the absurdity of us, bound so fast with such a light touch.
The painting represents the midpoint in a series that runs
from real to abstract: a flame of deep blue with a ghost
inside, flaring white, haloed by green. Can I count my fantasies
and dreams since I first allowed myself to think?
We chose the dildo for its blue-green swirl. The idea of it
turns me on, and I almost never want it again. Later that night
K and I declare our devotion on the cold, still shore
before dosing ourselves with edibles to be sure we sleep.
Under Georgia’s eye, each of us wakes in the night to check
the other’s breathing, to hold her warmth close, to breathe.
Pleasure Bay
She tracks my location to Pleasure Bay
and is jealous that I am at the beach
with my husband again, listening
to the townie women behind us
talk about their Southie childhoods
and the Italians their fathers told them
were dirty, when suddenly, after the twelfth
lady has situated herself too close to our towels,
the women greet a newcomer—oh hello, Father!
A priest has arrived in shades and trunks.
He asks after their grandbabies and nieces
then sheds his top and swims to the other end
of Pleasure Bay, undeterred by the parts
per million of contaminant. And I wonder
if I will ever separate duty from desire.
Have I gotten irreversibly lost, looking
for lust? I’m not lying when I say
the path has been serpentine
since I first encountered myself.
I wonder if the ladies pine after
one another, if the priest offers advice—
if the original sin had been bigger,
would my soul be easier. The priest emerges
on the other shore to speak
with a parishioner in shorts.
Care is a romance never served cold.
The ladies keep confessing.
Ode to the Ocean on a Last Date
O winged swimmers
O drunken swarm
O swollen ocean
gargling flies
I never got used to you
and so you remain
resin, an amber token
unformed, the stripe
of cold that lapped
her waist and mine,
threatening to leave us
flecked with no knowing
Krysia Wazny McClain is a writer whose work has appeared in the Colorado Review, Milk Press, and Bloodroot Literary Magazine, among other publications. Krysia is also a volunteer community organizer for prison abolitionist causes and an editor of academic and organizational texts that contribute to social change. She holds an MFA from Bennington College and performs as the sapphic pigeon poet Livia Dove with the Boston Poetry Brothel.