Isobars

Wynona almost never thinks of sex,

and not because she isn’t having any.

She’s fine. If sex was at her fingertips

just itching to be had, she wouldn’t tell

herself you ought to keep your eye on that

at least. Don’t get her wrong, she’s been swept up

in lust; she’s fared some hot and heavy romps,

but none that ever added up to much

more than an ah or uh and then a lot

of say what? Thanks for asking, though. She’s fine.

Her mind is occupied. She does Sudoku.

Meditates. She has the internet

and TV Guide and doesn’t think of sex.

Not last week, not this morning, certainly

not right this second when the camera cuts

to the Weatherman, his Chiclet teeth agleam,

who says you better throw a blanket on

those roses, we’re expecting record lows;

not even when he reaches out to read

the map his hand invents, though she’ll admit

he makes her wish she was a continent.