(dedicated to the boy trapped briefly in my giant vagina)
Planted here since 2001,
public face of a German institute
for microbiology and virology--
woman as a plague upon the earth?
Visitors snicker at my name, snap
a selfie, move on, while I continue
to be rooted in frustration.
Chacan-Pi means making love,
according to De la Jara, my sculptor,
who stripped me to the essential
equipment, thirty-two tons of red
Veronese marble, vulva-shaped. No
other erogenous areas, no lips,
no breasts, no navel, no labia,
just me, a stone vagina, virgin
gateway to the world.
Until last year.
American exchange student--
love their naïve impetuosity--
decided to spelunk my innermost folds,
crawling deep inside me, wriggling
and wriggling until thoroughly trapped.
When his friend realized I could not,
would not, unclench him, he called
for help—five fire trucks, twenty-two
firemen laboring with their hands
without the application
of tools said the mayor—I might have
welcomed a few insertions, who knows?
freed the lover I yearn to return.
Could you post a sign right down there?
Something along these lines:
Touch the Statue, Please.
SuzAnne C. Cole
SuzAnne C. Cole, former college English instructor, writes in the Texas Hill Country. Both a juried and featured poet at the Houston Poetry Fest, she’s also won a Japanese haiku contest. Her poetry and fiction have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She also writes essays and plays.
The Ekphrastic Review
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