ISSN 1551-8086
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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
-table of contents-
  contributing poets
  Gary Beck
  Stefanie Bennett
  Jack G. Bowman
  Jeffrey Bryant
  Beverly M. Collins
  Dalia Elmanzalawy
  John Grey
  Grant Guy
  David Herrle
  Colin James
  Ron Lucas
  Peter Magliocco
  Nate Maxon
  Stephen Mead
  Rajnish Mishra
  Diana Rosen
  Jeanne Marie Spicuzza
  Mark States
  Kallista A Thompson
  David Thornbrugh
  Alyssa Trivett
  Lynn White
  mailing list
David Herrle
November 2018



photo by jerry hicks

    David Herrle is a freelance writer/editor from Pittsburgh. He is founder of SubtleTea and Bookolage, as well as author of Abyssinia, Jill Rush and Sharon Tate and the Daughters of Joy.



Fur Forest

In the beginning was the Fur Forest: an incomprehensible darkness,
a gluttonous matrix, the Source’s flavor saver, preserver of feral fragrance.

Far more perfect than the logarithmic spiral (the galaxian or nautilus spin)
is the shape of external female genitalia: upside-down lyre or wishbone,
properly kept warm and dark by unapologetic atavistic hair.

Ladies, let your bushes effervesce!
Swamp us in your mammal mess!
Fur, burst like a Pollock drip!
Forest, refuse the Delilah clip!

For purity, tradition, hygiene or fad, shaving the Fur is a true affront.
Even the slightest grooming – a single shorn hair – is atrocious.
Pubic deforestation belittles female biology, dehumanizes,
infantilizes, subtracts euphoric mammalian mugginess.

(It’s no wonder that Helen Gurley Brown imagined gifting
a Lucite-preserved female pubic hair for Valentine’s Day:
that single curl is a fertile crescent.)

Mankind trembles at the foot of the Forest, its humid darkness
causing unease and perplexion, so what better way to defang and diminish
the Fur Forest’s sovereign chaos than to effect its erasure?

Bald, exposed, left at clinical illumination’s mercy, this pubarche reversal
intends to tame the mucous spider.

After all, phallic admirals are see-faring navigators unnerved by obscure depths,
uncharted currents and ambiguous (“soft”) horizons, so they’d rather collide with
logical icebergs than swim the hot shamanic shadow and confront the invisible-jungle
Mama Mammal: Mata Hairy of the tufty spying eye.

But, just as the grass of prim lawns rises up in reclamation and wildlife overruns property
and centers of culture sooner or later, the Fur will always return to burgeon, and wild tufts
will forever be the best bedding for female genitalia’s incomprehensible coherence.

Ladies, let your bushes effervesce!
Swamp us in your mammal mess!
Fur, burst like a Pollock drip!
Forest, refuse the Delilah clip!

copyright 2018 David Herrle