Dave Harrity
3 Poems

In the New Age of Eroticism


That lorikeet is ovulating—you shouldn't touch her. 


But what if she comes to me? Sips honey from my paper cup?  

What if she desires touch, nearing without request or enticement? 


Well, have you ovulated? 


Obviously not, since it's impossible—biologically speaking. 


You're impossible, biologically. You & your finger swing.  

You & your stupid nectar. You & your unsaid expectations of experience. 


What do you mean? I'm just trying to feed them. 


Don't touch her is what I said—she's getting ready. 



      After Hiroo Onoda 


I desire my face  

as it was before. 


Twenty-eight years  

of hiding is a bowl  


of wilted fronds to eat  

tomorrow. Who is  


the enemy now? In dark 

or dusk: this very coast. 


I am all wet sand  

or all tickertape. I  


stopped hearing con- 

jugation a decade ago;  


the war isn’t over— 

victory is only  


another womb.  

Split it at the center  


with your thumb  

& spindle fear from  


incredulity, creamy  

pulp into new denial.  


It’s edible enough.  

To this day I wipe  


blood & mother’s milk 

from my lips & eyes. 





Bull Market


To our household in financial crisis, I've contributed in small ways— 

credit debt, an unattended portfolio—but more concerning  

than my desires to be a sound provider are the nuanced risks of being  

your only lover, the most intense of which I made recently in shaving  

my pubic hair over the commode with your ex's plugin razor.  

I didn't feel any less a man for the modern convenience or context;  

I don't know—maybe even more for the potential shock, but I have no  

certainty about it now. Each mow upward drifted a new nest 

on the water, portion of the hedge that took some time to grow. This is  

the predicted inflation about which I've heard so much. I didn't pay  

a bill or check the stock activity before we went to bed, but I knew,  

by this small investment, that you knew—finally—I was too big to fail.