Sara Jane Stoner
When I buy you perfume, my dearest,
it signifies a profound respect for
your argumentative abilities. When I buy
you lingerie, I mean to say there is something
I do not understand, let me dress it in this way.
When I smear your lipstick, I am subverting
the romance that my readings of you display.
Because, as chaired faculty, I know
I Love You died eight years ago.
I might as well say, "You Mean the World to Me,"
Or, "Thinking of You With Fondness."
I have composed anagrams
("meteor aunt melody who?" or, "definition shown: funk got shy")
but again and again they read like endings,
sad avowals to the state of amorous communiqué.
Let me just propose to you, for argument's sake,
(I do, after all, wear perfume even when you're away)
that my problem with Love is that is doesn't signify
in anything but a series of contradictory analogies
that happen to turn me on.
So shall we start with a map, a common philosophy of dualities,
to transcend via nuance our butches and femmes --
no matter how convincing Sue-Ellen Case has been.
(See attached: memorandum.)
