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Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9903:42
Lyn Lifshin

with everyone supposing the hotel they think
of her as hasn't closed. She faxes, "we are not
open for service," to 1700 friends, begs
them to send it on, a chain letter of no,

a there's no space warning.  She's sick of phone
calls from the midwest, the month's
annoying arrivals. "Don't put your self
out," they whine, just book us in, put

us in your little guest room. no one
can imagine she's sore, bored with
being a space, exhausted from all
the in and out traffic as if she

was a hooker, was space for them to
fill. Her man never has put up with
this. Visitors don't expect HIM to turn
his days inside out. He uses his penis

to keep them at a distance, like a
stick, she thinks, or a club. They see
it and know he's busy. She wishes she
had her own penis for a day to open

doors, not be a door for others, make her
way, not just be the way, like a thru way