Coercion

White collar 'round his neck,
rebel behind the pulpit,
shocking old ladies with sermons
about underarm deodorants and closeness,
making him my man in the white hat,
James Dean with a cause. 
He held me in his lap like a father, 
made me feel safe, my college mentor, 
saying I should relax, open up, 
strut streets in slut shoes, 
let spirit flow in between 
spread legs but he left before 
he could become that pipeline and I 
traveled new byways, let spirit flow 
where he said but in my time and terms 
til that day in New York when his crew 
was down past his shoulders, 
my own hair the same, 
Godiva meeting her wannabe horse.
We talked about how he screwed 
Village hippies, had group sex 
with his wife, showed his cock to a woman 
he counseled, (to liberate her, he said), 
and now it was time for spirit 
to enter me through him 
or he would bind his tongue,
not speak to a woman who wanted 
to stay child to his grownup forever, 
but I said no, and no again, 
but he insisted, was still my superman, 
my man on the mountaintop, my double-oh-seven,
so I begged him, a penitent, ashes spread
all around, telling him no, no,
but still he insisted until my wall
broke, my moat was breached.
I knew when he stripped to red jockeys 
that he'd come to New York planning this,
rage turning the room red as his shorts
when he pumped me, the rope that had
bound us unraveling til it popped
when he popped then dressed
and walked out the door smiling.



Pris Campbell
©2010

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