Islets of Langerhans
The regions of the pancreas that contain its endocrine (i.e., hormone-producing) cells.
This stinging-nettle prickle
beneath my skin,
this sweat blossom
between my breasts,
this struggling for
breath, as if
any air that reaches my lungs
is dragging its way
through fourteen layers
of filtering muslin.
Call it hormones.
Call the light-headedness
oxygen deprivation,
the tendency to blush
hot flashes. Say:
"It's very common
in women of a certain age."
though don't answer when
they ask "How old?"
Instead, give your
best Gioconda smile
(call it that to avoid
the Mona Lisa cliché).
Call the sudden,
sharp urge to fuck
a yearning for youth,
mid-life crisis.
Work through it
clinging to
and looking over
familiar shoulders;
breathe your tight, urgent gasps
into familiar ears.
Call that particular familiarity
by its true name, love,
so you can call the
other aberration madness,
hormones. Ignore the stimulus,
the presence that prompts
the symptoms.
Call that coincidence;
just don't call it desire.
Don't call it attraction.
Foolish old woman, don't call it lust.
Another "anatomy" poem here.