An alarm goes off each time
a woman thinks of sex, I read
in a supermarket tabloid.
Small alarm, early warning.
Coca Cola can be tried
as a contraceptive. Bottles
fizz open, sexual parts
douched till they’re sticky.
Then babies arrive
dressed in fuzzy onesies
snapped shut over crotches.
What a great kid, I say,
my arms full of groceries—
red-pepper hummus, blood
oranges. What does it mean,
exactly, thinking of sex?
Do Altoid candies enhance
the pleasures of oral sex?
Or should I buy chewing gum,
soft, sweet, pink, ample?
I stand in line to pay for
my beautiful lunch, dark flesh
of oranges, wintergreen mints,
big chunks of strawberry gum.