by Cecil Morris
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| Yellow No. 5 food dye. (Matthew Christiansen/U.S. National Science Foundation) |
“Scientists use food dye found in Doritos to make see-through mice.” —The Washington Post, September 5, 2024.
I had seen her naked—more than once—
that was fun for a while—and arousing too—
but now I wanted more—more than surface—
more than skin-deep knowing—superficial titillation—
Armed with tartrazine—good old Yellow #5—
in truth a bag of pulverized Doritos—I massaged
and massaged my beloved—the bony plain
between her breasts and then the smoothness of her scalp—
a slow and steady knowing entering my hands—
and just like the Stanford scientists said
in their Science article—all became clear—first
my own hands’ knobby bones and tangle of tendons,
my rushing blood—then my beloved’s off-white sternum,
her ribs, her elusive peek-a-boo heart—the clench
and release of her love—and through her scalp
and skull her brain at work, her thoughts a mist
on sea breeze borne, a mesmerizing swirl
in which I fell— It was so good—sublime—
old Spock’s Vulcan mind-meld—and overwhelmed
I collapsed and hummed my sated sound—
and she sat up—her chest, her head aglow—
and asked if it worked—
Full disclosure: neither my beloved nor I have
attended Stanford not even for a swim meet
or football game and neither marijuana
that was fun for a while—and arousing too—
but now I wanted more—more than surface—
more than skin-deep knowing—superficial titillation—
Armed with tartrazine—good old Yellow #5—
in truth a bag of pulverized Doritos—I massaged
and massaged my beloved—the bony plain
between her breasts and then the smoothness of her scalp—
a slow and steady knowing entering my hands—
and just like the Stanford scientists said
in their Science article—all became clear—first
my own hands’ knobby bones and tangle of tendons,
my rushing blood—then my beloved’s off-white sternum,
her ribs, her elusive peek-a-boo heart—the clench
and release of her love—and through her scalp
and skull her brain at work, her thoughts a mist
on sea breeze borne, a mesmerizing swirl
in which I fell— It was so good—sublime—
old Spock’s Vulcan mind-meld—and overwhelmed
I collapsed and hummed my sated sound—
and she sat up—her chest, her head aglow—
and asked if it worked—
Full disclosure: neither my beloved nor I have
attended Stanford not even for a swim meet
or football game and neither marijuana
nor LSD were directly involved in this.
Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The Ekphrastic Review, Hole in the Head Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. He and his partner, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.
