Back from hiatus, my sex drive is a sitcom

on its second chance, the time off making it

a kinky little sycophant, more Charles in Charge

than Fame. My sex drive loves the 80s: big hair,

synthesizers, neon, and torn sweatshirts. It wears

wristbands, walks like an Egyptian,

whistling with gusto, because it used to be down

on itself, its mercurial nature, its spells of despondency.

Now, it deep throats itself when it’s ornery, gets itself off

and texts me the evidence if I leave it alone too long.

My sex drive wants us to make a lot of babies.

All the babies. Platoons of babies

riding rafts of babies, slipping out of my vagina

and onto the shores of the living, middle fingers raised.

When I beg to differ it tells me to shut up,

it’s Charles, and it’s in charge of my days and my nights.

My sex drive has had enough of snooze.

It sidles up to strangers, singing

I’m gonna live forever!  They look on in pity.

It sings nonstop. Its voice like a water-hose

baking all day in the sun,

it comes on hot, then cold, so cold,

downright mean the more you turn it on.

Amie Whittemore