Among men, my dimensions
bear repeating, overbearing. Waddle
of wrapper and ripped bathrobe, the leaks in luggage
(wailings for a sucker! seekings for a sleep!) I've

been so woo'd I'm wont to overflow. My kind cannot
contain itself-not (à la Rilke) because uncontainable
(o lightning poetry! o fire without a smoke!)-but just spilled
over, mere material, from being big. Among the many, lovers knew

few finer woes if any, not one man in twenty
knew a shitsmear from a bleed. What did I want? Was not
his mast of membership an outing admirable, surely I remember it?
His idea of a hell a hole, of heaven a heave-ho. Relieved

of the gist of the chemical well (connubial glimmers
that started as wit, then sharpened into sparkles
with contaminating time) he went off with his bowsprit quite inclined
to sweeter swims, and farther arts: I hear he plays

transparent passages today, the frigate as progenitor.
Among his women, mentions
rear berating. Swapper of saddles,
tripper of half-troubles, seeker

of sugars, he's hued (and cried) so often
he's a tidy spectacle. More power
to him! His kind never
spills itself, except

inside another, a receptacle.

--Heather McHugh