Ode to My Ass
Rebecca Mundean   


Not the noble beast that carried
Mary into Bethlehem, round
with God’s
son. Worshipped, all the same,
in her buffslick robe

or yoga pants. The curves,
most say, like the bulging lines
of a fresh peach awaiting the first
dribbling bite. But my ass
is more--
not unlike cupped water,
the anxious stillness right before
being swept up toward awakening. Mine

has endured the best
and worst verbs:
toileted, beaten,
covered, spanked,
sucked, shook,
pinched, probed, appreciated,

marveled at as if it were the Grand Odalisque,
greasy eyes following the excess vertebrae
right down to the shy yet peeking
bottom just beyond the feathers of sex,
ready to play.

One picture is worth
a thousand asses, or something like that.

My ass does not discriminate, voted
independent in the last election,
and is cherished by every man--
priests, pet detectives, crocodile wranglers--
the chimney sweep whistles closely for a tickle--
stunt men, chick sexers, bike messengers,
all men come
near and far with their carefully
formulated opinions and comments,
quips my ass has heard before.
I see you baby! Shakin’ that ass, shakin’
that ass.

My glorious hind,
however, knows more than of
lap and dick and palm,
but of poise and realization:

the difference between Applebee’s Frank
and Reverend Smith is a succulent ass,
a heaping dynasty,
a femme fatale of flesh and tissue
cushioning my bones
from their bones,

beyond the sweating gaze
of the leaking one eye.